


This Final Heaven

by Ms_Starlight



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Action/Adventure, Epic, F/M, Mythology - Freeform, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:56:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Starlight/pseuds/Ms_Starlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Ancient Trabia, a great hero passed on a legend of the end of time. In the future, a sorceress set the pieces moving. And in the present, an unlikely group of heroes stand alone against an unforgiving god. (Full story available on ff.net. This is a revised version.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legend

**Author's Note:**

> I am currently in the process of revising this story and will be posting chapters as I finish with them. Already posted chapters are subject to random bouts of revising as well--though mostly just typo & grammar fixes.

_Ancient Trabia, Wilderness_

Jorgan E’Lizul pulled the hood of his musky fur coat tight against the blowing snow. In the valley below, he could make out the glow of a dozen torches and several bon fires beyond the strange shadows of bristling pine. Even now, work continued at a fevered pace. Artisans, stonemasons, quarrymen, architects, priests, and soldiers from across the empire had gathered here, all of them called to action by young King Zebalga II who was new to the throne and attempting to recapture the zeitgeist of his grandfather’s reign. He wanted people to feel renewed pride at being Centran. And, more than that, Zebalga II wanted his people to remember that they owed their lives to his family.

Reviving that memory was Jorgan’s mission. That was why he had sailed the treacherous waters near the barren salt flats, lost two of his chocobos in the rocky mountain passes, and trekked through weeks worth of chilly tundra to reach this place: the cursed tomb of Hyne the Magician—soon to be the resting place of Centra’s greatest hero.

Jorgan descended into the camp across a barren expanse of windswept dirt.

A soldier met him, tilting a spear upon his hip to level it at Jorgan’s heart. He glanced from Jorgan’s face, to his one remaining chocobo, and to the small entourage that accompanied him: a young slave boy of fifteen and two members of the king’s guard who still wore the green feathers in their hair signifying their position.

“Who’re you?” the solider asked.

“Jorgan E’Lizul.” He made a small, perfunctory bow. “Palace scribe and historian for his majesty, the Lord Zebalga II, may he live forever. This is my company.”

The soldier paused for a moment. “Why’re you here?” he finally asked. He seemed genuinely curious. He wasn’t Centran but, judging from his accent and broad face, an ethnic Trabian. A barbarian in the flesh.

“I’ve come to speak with Vascaroon.”

Another barbarian.

“He’s ill.”

“Yes. I know.” Jorgan inclined his head respectfully. “That is why his majesty sent me.”

The man admitted Jorgan into the camp and directed him to Vascaroon’s tent, a canvas and mezmerize-hide structure barely sufficient to ward off the cold. It felt even smaller on the inside than it had appeared from without. A heavy flap separated the area into two rooms, against which an burning oil lamp cast Vascaroon’s broad silhouette. Filled with reverence and a sudden sense of his own insignificance, Jorgan pushed back the flap.

Vascaroon, well into his nineties, looked nothing like the statue that now rested in the middle of Centra’s capital. His hair, once flaming red, was now wispy and gray. His frame spoke of once having possessed great power, and his hands and shoulders still appeared strong, but the rest had withered away with time. He had blunt fingers, tanned skin, and deep wrinkles around his tired, green eyes which had seen decades of war.

“Zebalga send you?” Vascaroon asked before Jorgan had the opportunity to introduce himself.

“Yes. To record your story.”

“My story?” He laughed indignantly. “Why?”

Jorgan sat down on a wooden stool a few feet from the old hero. “You’re the greatest man of our time,” he said simply. “And you’re dying.”

“Not yet, I’m not.”

All of the fuss, all of the building and activity around the tomb of Hyne the Magician, was for this man and his legacy. He didn’t appear to appreciate the effort. Although, Jorgan couldn’t blame him since he’d been conducted to this hated place against his will. The trip and the harsh weather had taken their toll. Not long from now, his time would pass, and with him the last living memory of the auspicious beginnings of the Centran Empire.

“Do you still recall the war?” Jorgan asked.

Vascaroon sent him a haunted look which said that did.

“And the Magician?”

“I haven’t forgotten Hyne.” Vascaroon settled deep in his chair, as if memories from that turbulent time threatened to crush him.

Jorgan E’Lizul reached across the space between them and touched the legendary man on the arm. “Then tell me. Everything you can. I’ll make sure that no one ever forgets you or what you did for the Centran people.”


	2. Laguna's Dinner

_Present Day_

Laguna Loire leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on his desk, and folded his arms behind his head. His assistant, Sam, crossed off an item on a long list scribbled in pencil on a yellow legal pad that had “economic summit” written at the top in all capital letters. They had been reviewing policies for three hours now and Laguna hadn’t even managed to move on to page two.

Being in government at peace time, he decided, was horribly boring.

But things hadn’t always been this way.

When he’d first been elevated to to his position as president, all of Esthar had been a-buzz with change. Life had been dynamic then, a roller coaster of passions and adventures fueled by the rumbling aftershocks of the Sorceress Adel’s cataclysmic reign and defeat. Since then, he’d seen tensions rise to a fever pitch in Galbadia, a lunar cry, and a second sorceress war.

Presently, all the stronger from what it had endured, his country was plugging along brightly and all of the analysts Laguna had were calling for smooth sailing to the horizon.

He didn’t want to seem ungrateful for good fortune, but the prospect of spending the rest of his life in meetings discussing things like gross domestic product and a fraction of a percentage change in interest rates struck him as downright depressing. Privately, he dreamed of stepping down, releasing himself from the burden, and going back to writing for _Timber Maniacs_ so that he could travel the world.

“Sir?”

“Hmm? Sorry?” Laguna snapped to attention.

Sam frowned and flipped to page two. “Aside from the summit, the new Galbadian President has expressed an interest in meeting with you.”

“Really? What’s he want to meet about? It’s not one of those damn diplomatic brunches, is it?”

“I’m sure the last thing he wants is dinner by candlelight, sir.”

“All right. So, what _does_ he want?”

Galbadia’s new president, Jack Krier, was a former General. Laguna hadn’t worked with Krier during his short time in the Galbadian Army, but he’d heard of him nonetheless. Krier, the consummate military man, was starched and stern with time tables and objectives for everything. He wasn’t afraid to throw around his weight to get what he wanted, and he usually got whatever he asked for from friends and enemies alike.

“The Galbadians have only said that he’d like to discuss an issue of ‘mutual importance.’ It could be anything,” Sam replied. “They’d like to meet on neutral ground.”

“Did they have any suggestions?”

“Balamb.”

Laguna had been meaning to take a trip to Balamb for months so that he could unwind in the sun, do a little fishing, and maybe spend some time reconnecting with his estranged son. He hesitated to think that Squall might just welcome him into Garden with open arms, but…

“I think we could fit that into my schedule. What do you think?”

Sam leafed through a planner. “Next month looks clear.”

“Great. Set everything up. And…let Headmaster Cid know that I’ll be bringing Ellone along.”

In the years since Adel had been vanquished inside the Lunatic Pandora and the Sorceress Ultimecia had been defeated, Laguna had only seen his son a few cursory times when the paths of Esthar and Balamb Garden had crossed. Ellone, however, was still very close to her brother. Laguna knew that they’d want to see each other, and though he knew that he’d be piggy-backing on their good relationship, he refused to feel guilty about it.

Sam jotted down a date in his planner.

“You really have no idea what Krier wants? Not even a guess?” Laguna asked.

Sam shrugged. “He is a brand new president. Maybe wants to make friends. You’re Galbadian, after all. There hasn’t been a time for peacemaking between our countries quite like the present.”

“That’s true.” Laguna filed the issue away in his mind. For the moment, he was more concerned about Squall than Krier. The mere thought of confronting his son made the twitchy muscle in the back of his calf begin to seize.

He hadn’t been so nervous in years.

* * *

Squall sat signing a few last minute forms when Angelo came jogging out of the bathroom and shoved her head under his hand, making his pen scratch across the paper in a wild arc.

“Damn it, Angelo!” Squall shoved her away.

Undaunted, the dog continued to look up at him, her butt wiggling with excitement.

“I’m busy. What do you want?”

Her ears perked up and her head tilted slightly to one side.

“Are you talking to me?” Rinoa yelled from the bathroom.

“No!”

“Well, who are you talking to?”

She peeked into the room, a few over-sized rollers still hanging from her hair. She spotted Angelo and grinned before vanishing back into the bathroom.

“I told you she likes you. What are you working on, anyway?”

“Paperwork. All of this security is a nightmare.”

Not just one but two major world leaders were in town, and both had hired Balamb Garden to keep the peace. Squall had been busy for weeks now sorting out all the details. Laguna’s aids had been particularly needy, calling several times a day every day to check on his progress.

“What’s Esthar think we’re going to do?” he asked. “Kill Laguna ourselves?”

“Well…” Rinoa came out of the bathroom trailing the scent of spring lilies and dropped her head down to kiss him on the cheek. “It does sort of seem sometimes like you might try to.”

Squall rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Oh come on.” Rinoa stepped back and flipped her hair out of her face. “Aren’t you at least excited to see Ellone?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then go to this thing for her. And for me. I know all about having a dad who’s not there for you, you know. At least Laguna wants to be with you now. He’s trying. You’ve got to at least give him some credit for that.”

Squall said nothing, very aware that in this instance Rinoa didn’t exactly practice what she preached. She was still very much estranged from her own father who lived alone in his vast Deling City mansion.

“Who knows,” Rinoa continued. “You might even have a good time.”

Everyone in Garden was thrilled about Laguna and Ellone’s visit, even though the trip was for business. Zell, Selphie, Irvine, and Quistis had been buzzing for days about the lavish state dinner Laguna was hosting at the Balamb Hotel that night and had immediately signed up to staff the event when Squall asked for volunteers. Selphie had even managed to dig up old issues of _Timber Maniacs_ in the library and had been re-posting old articles written by “Sir Laguna” on her Garden net-space.

Squall felt decidedly less enthusiastic. He hadn’t seen much of his father in the past two years since they’d found one another again, and he was content to let their relationship remain distant.

Rinoa pulled a white dress out of their closet and held it against her body. “What do you think about this one?” she asked.

“Looks great,” Squall replied. But she frowned and put it back, as if he had only confirmed some suspicion she had.

Eventually, she decided on a knee-length powder blue dress. The decision was less involved for Squall who put on the same thing he wore to every major event—his SeeD uniform.

“Hurry or we’re going to be late,” Rinoa shouted as she put her earrings in and walked toward the door.

Squall grabbed her arm as she passed to stop her. “You’re sure we can’t just stay here?” he asked and tugged her close, flicking one of her earrings gently with his thumb, amused by the way it swung and sparkled. She looked beautiful.

Rinoa turned her face away when he bent to kiss her. “I’m sure.”

 _Spoil sport._

She looped her arm through his, and together they met everyone else in front of the Garden directory. Zell and Irvine both wore their SeeD uniforms as well, though Irvine still persistently wore Galbadia Garden colors. Selphie stood at his elbow, wearing his hat and a long yellow dress with a slit that went up indecently high on her thigh. Quistis had dressed in black, a plunging neckline and gold hoop earrings her only accessories. Strictly speaking, they were all on duty, not guests. Squall would have chastised both women for not wearing something more professional but didn’t want to do so in front of Rinoa who’d only lecture to him about it later.

Balamb was already bustling with activity when they arrived. In their Garden car, they were flagged past the first security check point and directed toward the back of the hotel. There they were briefed, given a cursory identity check by both the Estharans and the Galbadians, and then allowed to go inside.

Rinoa gripped Squall’s arm, her body moving close to his as they climbed the steps toward the banquet room. Among the flurry of giggles emanating from Selphie and the calm droning of Quistis, Rinoa seemed a bastion of silence in a social storm. Squall tucked her close, glad to have her by his side.

“Wow! What beautiful decorations!” Selphie said as she skipped into the banquet room which had been set up with multiple round tables, all covered in thick white linen, beach themed decorations, and bunches of fresh cut flowers. Laguna stood in the middle of it all, wearing sandals, a half unbuttoned sea foam green shirt, and loose white pants. His long, graying hair was pulled back but still managed to look messy. When he saw them walk in he smiled and waved.

“Sir Laguna!” Selphie launched herself at him, settling into his arms for a big bear hug that lifted more than a foot off the ground and tipped Irvine’s hat off her head.

The others he met with somewhat less exuberance: a handshake for Irvine, a friendly back-slap for Zell, and a casual embrace for Quistis. When he came to Squall, he buried his hands in his pockets and rocked back onto his heels.

“Squall…Hi,” he said lamely.

“Hi.”

“Listen…I’d really like to talk to you after this. I know you’re not much of a…uh…talker, but you could just listen. If you want.”

Squall looked away and shrugged. “Whatever.”

Taking that as a “yes,” Laguna grinned and moved on to Rinoa. He pulled her close with one arm. “Nice to see you again. Listen, I’ve got to go chat with the Galbadians. But I’m going to be in town for a while, and I definitely want to spend some time with the _both_ of you later.” He held up one finger as a physical indication of their engagement, then rushed off to attend to whatever business he had.

Squall made an attempt at mingling, starting out by fetching a glass of punch and enjoying some _hors d’oeuvres_. Over the top of his punch glass, he surveyed the crowd and wondered, not for the first time, why Esthar and Galbadia were talking to each other in the first place. The two countries had little in common and even less to discuss.

He felt a rush of genuine joy when he spotted Ellone. She stood facing away from him, dressed in white with a blue jacket and yellow sneakers rather than dress shoes. Leaving Rinoa at the refreshment table where she’d fallen into conversation with some long-lost Galbadian friend, Squall went to greet his sister.

She turned just as he reached her. In her right hand, she held a small flute of white wine, more for appearance than anything else. The glass was full; Ellone didn’t drink. It tipped and almost spilled out as she grinned and wrapped one arm around his shoulders.

“Squall! I’m so happy to see you,” she said, her loving embrace and the closest thing he’d ever known to family.

* * *

Quistis chewed on a green olive she’d fished out of her drink and looked around for someone— _anyone_ —she knew. Irvine and Selphie had vanished into the crowd. Even Zell, who should have stood out like a sore thumb, was nowhere to be seen.

Then someone came up behind her. “Good evening.”

Surprised, she spun around to find a tall, physically imposing older man.

“Jack Krier,” he introduced himself, proffering one hand. Quistis only vaguely recalled Krier’s election, and this man certainly wasn’t what she’d envisioned. His broad shoulders filled his black suit and would have stretched the seams had the jacket not been tailor made, which was evident from the man’s initials embroidered on the cuffs. A shadow of deliberate-looking stubble graced his square jaw. The rest of his hair was close-cropped in a neat, military cut. His warm, strong handshake exuded confidence and a certain, familiar aggression.

“ _President_ Krier,” she asked, just to be sure.

“The one and only.”

“I’m Quistis Trepe.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Briefly, she wondered if he recognized her because he’d seen the humiliating Galbadian broadcast from years ago when Seifer had kidnapped his predecessor.

“I’m glad that Balamb agreed to host this event,” he said, slipping into business. “Your commander has been more than generous with his time.”

“Squall?”

Generous wasn’t the first adjective that came to mind when Quistis thought about her former student.

“Yes. He’s…President Loire’s son. Isn’t he?” Krier asked, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Sort of,” Quistis hedged and took a sip from her glass so she wouldn’t have to say more on the subject.

“And _you_ are SeeD.” He seemed amused by this.

“You have SeeDs in Galbadia.”

“Yes. But none quite like you.”

Was he flirting? Quistis wasn’t sure and he didn’t give her much time to digest his statement.

“I’m very excited that there’s finally an open line of communication between Galbadia and Esthar,” he began, moving back into politics again. “Having a Galbadian President in Esthar offers us a unique opportunity to find some common ground. Don’t you think? I think that together Esthar and Galbadia are going to be able to accomplish things neither country could on their own. These talks may very well usher us into a great new age.”

Quistis puzzled over his desire for an alliance for a moment. He had to realize that Esthar would never accept political bonds with any other country, whether Laguna wanted them or not. She’d had just opened her mouth to say so when he changed track again.

“Would you care for another drink?” He stopped a passing waitress and selected something pink and handed it to her.

She felt mildly insulted by his choice, that he would assume she only drank _foofy_ drinks.

“You were there when Squall defeated the Sorceress Ultimecia. Weren’t you?” he asked.

Actually, Quistis had been knocked out cold before the end of the battle and had spent the remainder spiraling through time compression, only to be dumped on the beach near the orphanage some time later. Dizziness and disorientation still sometimes struck her like a space-time tidal wave when she thought about it.

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been,” she said.

“Why? There’s peace now because of you,” he replied. “All the sorceresses are defeated.”

“Well, there’s still Rinoa.” It slipped out before Quistis had the good sense to keep the fact to herself. Krier smiled as if she’d offered him a particularly juicy bone.

“I mean, of course, all the _evil_ sorceresses.”

“Of course.”

That was one thing Galbadia and Esthar now had in common—a mutual hatred of sorceresses. Edea had changed the Galbadians from a nation of people who daydreamed about magic and knights into one that feared them. Quistis had watched romantic movies about tall, dark men in glittering armor when she was young, hardly able to understand the actors through their thick west-Galbadian accents, but nonetheless enchanted by their selfless loyalty. The knight always died in the end, his bloody head falling into the sorceress’s lap where she cradled it in the folds of her white robe.

The bitter reality of a sorceress more shadow than light, and a knight who lived his life with the same verve as a raging brush fire had sobered the Galbadian fantasy. With Jack Krier, the people had voted for a leader who was both hard and powerful. They expected him to singlehandedly defend the country against another hostile takeover.

So Quistis regarded him with a healthy dose of suspicion as he spoke of Rinoa, the last remaining sorceress.

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet,” he said. “Is she here?”

“Afraid I haven’t seen her.”

“She’s the daughter of our own General Caraway, you know. I served under him briefly. Brilliant man. I’d love to meet his only daughter.”

“Rinoa doesn’t take after her father,” Quistis said. “I don’t think you’d see much of a resemblance.”

He smiled and touched her elbow. “I’d hoped she might more closely resemble her mother. Julia was an enchanting woman. In any case, I’d consider it a courtesy. Will you introduce me if you see her?”

At that moment, Laguna burst forth from the crowd and blew over their conversation like a whirlwind.

“Quistis! I see you’ve met President Krier.” He slipped one arm around her and pulled her tight against his side. “She’s a charmer, isn’t she, Jack?”

The smile he’d been wearing a second before fell off Krier’s face. “Indeed.”

“Hope you don’t mind if I steal her from you for a bit,” Laguna said, although he had already begun ushering her away.

“What was that about?” she asked, trying not to spill her drink as Laguna directed her toward a table where Zell and Selphie were already sitting. Zell had a plate of cocktail sausages and was stuffing them into his mouth as Selphie cheered him on.

“You shouldn’t fornicate with the enemy,” Laguna replied.

“Fornicate? You mean _fraternize_?”

“Uh…sure. Same difference.”

“No. There’s a pretty big difference.”

Laguna sighed. “Whatever. The point is…I don’t know what he wants yet. And I don’t want him knowing anything about Esthar that he shouldn’t.”

Sometimes, Quistis wondered what Esthar thought it had to hide. In the past two years, she’d spent a lot of time there, pastel robes and all, and hadn’t found anything worth keeping secret.

Laguna sat her down next to Zell who flashed her a meaty grin. Selphie laughed, her yellow lacquered nails biting into her cheeks as she fought to stifle her glee. _Perfect_. Only Quistis could go in a matter of seconds from wining and dining the president of Galbadia to the kids’ table.

Deliberately ignoring Zell and Selphie, Quistis watched Krier move through the room. He radiated confidence and power. Against her better judgement, Quistis found something about his manner attractive and couldn’t seem to stop observing him as he smiled and shook hands. Her back went straight and her hands unconsciously gripped the table when another man walked up and grabbed Krier roughly by the arm.

She saw the new man lean in, shout something, and stamp his foot. They would have been nose to nose if Krier hadn’t been so tall. The commotion drew the attention of everyone around them, including Zell who paused in his chewing with his jaw slack.

Squall, with the same unnerving sense of timing his father had, chose that moment to appear with Ellone at his side. He held her back with one gloved hand, then walked with purpose toward the squabbling pair.

Krier grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders and said something through his teeth. Even across the room, Quistis could make out the veins pulsing in his neck and temples.

Quistis, along with everyone else in the room, gasped when the smaller man stepped back and took a swing at the president, landing a lusty blow to Krier’s jaw that made his head snap back.

“Holy shit,” Zell squeaked. “Did you see that?”

Krier recovered quickly and dabbed a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth before scowling down at the smaller man. Quistis saw his shoulders bunch, saw the material of his expensive blazer stretch as he drew his arm back.

“Stop!” Quistis yelled, holding one hand out.

She felt the spell move down her arm before she even realized she’d cast it. A blue-green haze obscured her vision as the rest of the world slowed around her. Her heartbeat pulsed loud and slow even as her fingers and palm burned with energy. And then the spell was gone, flying across the room. It hit Krier and he froze, his fist inches from the other man’s face, right as Squall skidded up next to him.

* * *

Squall spun around from the prone form in front of him and found Quistis standing with her hand still held out from the spell she had cast. Laguna, Zell, and Selphie stood with her, their mouths slack with horror.

Had she really just cast a spell on the Galbadian President? This was going to be a diplomatic nightmare. Squall could already see the piles of letters on his desk, the apologies he would have to make. The entire crowd had hushed, also seeming frozen by the power of Quistis’s command. For a long moment, no one dared to breathe. Not even the little Galbadian man who’d started the fight in the first place.

Then Rinoa appeared and cast esuna on the frozen president.

Krier stumbled and blinked, confused but otherwise unharmed. His recovery sent the room into chaos. Squall grabbed the smaller man by the arm to make sure he wouldn’t escape into the fray.

“Quistis!” he yelled. But she was already jogging toward him as fast as her black heels allowed. “What were you thinking?” he demanded under his breath.

Her mouth opened, then closed. “Krier was going to hit him!” she finally said. “What was I supposed to do? Let him?”

Squall glared at her, furious.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, her arms crossed.

“Better to let him take the heat for losing his temper than to cast a spell on the _president_ of Galbadia at a diplomatic dinner,” he replied quickly. He didn’t have time to deal with this. Now he’d be stuck making amends with the Galbadians all night long and would be lucky to even find the time to sit down and eat, not to mention Garden might never get a job in that part of the world ever again.

Irvine appeared then, and Squall shoved the Galbadian into his arms.

“Let’s take this man into custody,” he barked.

Laguna walked up as Irvine conducted the man away. Squall followed and felt a small swell of relief as he brushed past his father. At least if he was too busy dealing with the aftermath of this incident, he wouldn’t have time for Laguna’s planned _tête-à-tête_. Plus, interrogating a hardened criminal felt infinitely more familiar and comfortable to Squall than fancy dresses, cocktails, and diplomacy anyway.

Well, maybe not a _hardened criminal_ exactly, Squall thought as he followed Irvine out of the hotel ballroom and down a deserted hallway and through a door marked “Employees Only.” The man was visibly shaken. And not, Squall supposed, just because he’d come so close to getting his ass handed to him by President Krier. SeeD had a hard earned reputation. Being taken into custody by Garden was a common plot in civilian action movies, the sort of thing no one figured really happened to everyday people. So as Irvine swept a box of blank time cards off a folding metal chair, the Galbadian eyed him a look of silent terror.

Squall closed the door behind them as Irvine pushed the chair up against the wall, then planted the man in it.

“Hey, calm down,” Irvine said and put on a pleasant face. “It’s not the end of the world.”

They’d all attacked their share of world leaders in their time.

“We just want to talk,” Squall added, trying his best to sound reassuring.

The man shook his head. Then, inexplicably, he dropped his head into his hands and released a groan that bordered on becoming a full-fledged wail. It was hardly the reaction Squall had expected. Full of frustration, but with a sharp edge of despair.

Irvine sighed and crouched down.

“Guess we’ll just start with the basics. What’s your name?”

He didn’t look up. “Robert Shipey.”

“Do you have a job?” Irvine continued.

Shipey nodded and, after raking both of his hands through his hair, sat up. “I’m a professor at Deling University. For the past two years, I’ve been working for the Galbadian government.”

“Doing what?”

“Translations. I study Ancient Centra. Or…Ancient Centran. The language.” He picked up steam and began to steady as he spoke. “We’ve finally collected enough samples from around the world that we’ve been able to make some headway, working backward from languages in Dollet and Esthar. Now that we’ve been able to reconstruct a wider working vocabulary and a sense of syntax, all the inscriptions and ancient parchments…”

Squall was throughly lost. Ancient Centran? What on earth did any of this have to do with Krier?

“You were contracted by the Galbadian government to do this?” he asked, interrupting Shipey.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s…” He hesitated. “You see, I can’t…”

Irvine glanced at Squall and raised an eyebrow. Secret Ancient Centran translations? This was getting weirder by the minute.

Shipey licked his lips and continued. “He’s cutting me out, you see— taking over the whole project.”

“Is that why you hit him?” Squall asked. “Because Krier is taking your project away?”

Oddly defiant, Shipey sank down in his chair and refused to answer.

“You did a pretty serious thing back there,” Irvine said. “He could throw you in prison forever. And there aren’t many places on earth more foul than those dark, underground desert prisons your country throws political prisoners in.”

“No. The work I’m doing is too important. He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“I wouldn’t count on it, Professor.”

Squall leaned back on his heels, as puzzled as ever. Why was Shipey at this dinner in the first place? He was about to ask when the door behind him swung open.

“Mr. Leonhart?”

A black-suited, serious-looking man came into the room followed by two more exactly like him.

“This man attacked the President. We appreciate your assistance in the matter, but we can take him from here.”

The one in front flashed Squall a badge that identified him as Galbadian Secret Service. Since the Vinzer Deling fiasco, the Galbadian Secret Service had been significantly beefed up. They were no longer the bumbling rank and file of the army, but an elite force of highly trained goons. A few years ago, Squall might have felt intimidated by men like these. Now, he merely crossed his arms, irritated.

“You’ll have to wait. We’re not done with him.”

“Yes you are.” The man motioned to his companions, who pushed into the room and pulled Shipey up off his chair.

Squall blocked the door. “I think you’re forgetting where you are. Balamb is Garden territory. This man is under our umbrella until we release him to you.”

From behind, a firm hand gripped Squall’s shoulder and squeezed.

“What’s going on here?” Krier asked.

Squall had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he turned to face the president. “Just trying to get some answers, sir.”

“I’m sorry.” Krier smiled diplomatically. “I think this is my fault. I sent my men here to take Mr. Shipey off your hands. Garden doesn’t need to be involved in this squabble.” The hand still gripping Squall’s shoulder guided him out of the doorway.

“Squabble?”

“Yes. I fired him.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“His project was sucking up resources.” Krier and Shipey eyed one another as the secret service men led him from the room, his hands pinned behind his back at an angle that looked painful. “Something about translating ancient documents. Not the sort of thing worth our tax payer’s money in today’s world. I dissolved the project. Mr. Shipey was distraught. Apparently more-so than I realized.”

“Then why invite him to this dinner?”

It was a brusque question to ask the president of the world’s second most powerful nation.

“He’s an large figure in Galbadian intellectual circles,” Krier said. “Don’t worry. We can handle this. Feel free to go back to dinner. I know you must value this time with your father.”

The President pushed his hands into his tight pant’s pockets and sauntered casually after his men. Squall bristled. Bringing up Laguna had been a low blow, and he suspected Krier knew that.

“That was weird…” Irvine said once they were gone.

“They’ve got to be hiding something.”

“What? Some history book from the damn dark ages? Who cares? I think they’re just paranoid. They’ve been paranoid ever since Edea killed Deling.”

Assassination did have a way of putting a country on its toes, Squall conceded.

“Still, this is a strange thing to choose to be secretive about. I think there’s something more going on.”

Irvine shrugged. “Maybe they’re showboating. They’re here talking to Esthar, and they don’t want to seem weak.”

They walked back to the dining room where the rumble of voices and scrape of flatware against plates made it difficult for Squall to think clearly. Shipey bothered him. And Krier’s quick explanation, though it made perfect sense, didn’t sit well either. But there was nothing more he could do, and as he walked up to the table where all of his friends were sitting, Rinoa grabbed his hand and smiled.

“I saved you a seat.”

Right between her and Laguna.

With a sigh, Squall pulled the chair out and sat down.

Laguna leaned in close. “Glad to see you could make it.”

“I need to talk to you,” Squall replied, then winced when Laguna’s face lit with delight. “About Krier,” he quickly added. He hadn’t meant a father-son chat. More like a military debriefing.

“Sure,” Laguna said, still glowing, still obviously expecting something more than business.

 _Whatever_ , Squall grumbled to himself. He didn’t have to talk about anything personal. He’d just make his report and leave.

The catering staff came by and set down identical plates in front of everyone: steak smothered in dark, sticky sauce; a small bowl filled with cooked carrots, potatoes, and mixed greens; and a thick slice of chocolate cheese cake with raspberry sauce dribbled in a decorative pattern over the top. Picking up his knife with one hand, his fork with the other, Squall meticulously cut his steak the way he’d been taught in his old etiquette class at Garden while Rinoa talked about her time as part of the resistance in Timber. He lost all track of what she was saying when he saw Krier and his men walk back into the room. Krier sat down between two men dressed in Galbadian Navy uniforms. Admirals.

It certainly hadn’t taken him long to deal with Shipey. Squall hoped they hadn’t just taken the poor man out back and shot him.

Dinner was over more quickly than Squall would have liked. He took his time finishing his cheesecake, savoring every last bite while the catering staff drifted by to take plates, each eyeing him with thinly veiled hostility. The moment his fork touched the edge of his plate, the last of his meal gone, a man appeared out of nowhere and whisked it away.

“I’m going to go try to talk to President Krier before we go,” Quistis announced as she pushed her chair back. She smiled apologetically at Squall. “Hopefully, I can save you a few phone calls.”

He was about to offer to join her, but didn’t get the chance to before Laguna’s arm came down over his shoulders and rested there, filled with all of the tension between them. It should have been a casual gesture, a simple thing between a father and son. But for them it was weighty. Significant.

“We can talk back in my room where there’s a bit of privacy,” Laguna suggested. “My people can take you back to Garden if it takes too long.”

Squall agreed. Then the two got up together and left.

It felt strange and awkward to be alone with Laguna. They’d never spent any time just the two of them before. Ellone, Kiros, Ward, and Rinoa were never far away. Now, as they walked in silence through the empty hotel hallway, Squall began to get nervous. Even frightened.

 _I’ll say what I have to say right way_ , he decided. _Just get it out, and maybe then we’ll get caught up in business._

Laguna’s suite was plush and expansive, complete with a kitchenette, living room, and hot tub. Sighing, Laguna sat down on the couch and motioned for Squall to sit down as well. He chose a chair across the coffee table from Laguna, a comfortable distance, and launched into what needed to be said.

“I thought you should know what happened with Krier.”

Laguna frowned and rubbed his calf. “Why?”

“Because I don’t trust him.”

“Politics isn’t really about trust,” Laguna replied but nodded. “But tell me. What happened?”

In careful detail, Squall recounted his brief interrogation of Shipey and Krier’s intervention. Laguna seemed sympathetic.

“It’s bad enough having to fire someone,” he said, clearly considering his own experiences. “Krier’s lucky the guy wasn’t completely unhinged. He could have come off with a lot worse than just a sore jaw.”

“That’s the problem,” Squall replied. “I don’t think this guy’s unhinged at all. Shipey seemed a little odd, but not crazy. And with the way Krier and his men barged in…they completely ignored Garden jurisdiction. Just hauled him out of there like they didn’t want us to hear what he really had to say.”

“Krier is ex-military. He’s used to commanding people and situations,” Laguna pointed out, remaining bizarrely logical despite Squall’s best attempt to impress upon him how ominous he found the entire situation. “I’m sure he overruled you more out of habit than anything else. Besides, what could he possibly be hiding?”

“Maybe something that relates to your meeting tomorrow,” Squall suggested.

“I’ll ask him about it.” Laguna smiled and then doggedly changed the subject. “Anyway…what I really wanted to talk to you about is why I…er…left you back in Winhill.”

 _Crap._

“There’s nothing you need to explain.”

“I don’t think you understand what really happened.”

“No. I understand.” Squall swallowed back something—anger or tears, he wasn’t sure which. Neither was familiar anymore. “Ellone sent me back into the past. Into _your_ past. I know everything that happened.”

“Not everything. I didn’t—”

“Want me. I know. It’s okay.”

“No.” Laguna shook his head and looked flustered for the first time. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“You went and found Ellone.” Squall couldn’t seem to stop pushing on the old wound now that he’d reopened it. “I was at the orphanage with her. But you never asked about me. Never bothered.”

Laguna blew out a breath and leaned back. “Boy. You think you know everything. Don’t you?”

Squall didn’t say anything.

“Despite what you think, I love you, Squall. I always have. You’re my _son_.”

“Well, you’re not my father. You never have been.” It was all Squall could say.

“I’m trying.”

Squall stood up, ready to leave. “Better late than never?” he said. “Is that what you’re trying to say? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way to me.”

He didn’t want to feel like he needed a father; he’d done just fine without one for years. Laguna meant nothing to him. Still, he felt a shiver of pain when he saw the hurt expression on his father’s face. Quickly, he isolated himself from the feeling. He couldn’t allow any sympathy for this man to penetrate the icy shell around his heart. Not after this long.

Laguna looked down at the carpet, ashamed for them both. And Squall got up to leave. He didn’t want to hear anymore. Laguna could explain all he wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything. Nothing could give him back the man he’d once dreamed of on lonely, rainy nights at the orphanage by the sea. There wasn’t any room left in his heart for dreams like those.

The sound of the door slamming behind him as he left was satisfying, and he walked away without feeling regret.


	3. Digging Up the Past

Rinoa was dreaming.

Her eyelids fluttered and she groaned but couldn’t tear herself away from the images flashing across her mind. She stood outside herself looking in but didn’t recognize the person she saw. Her face kept bleeding away, smearing into a painter’s pallet of colors that blended into shifting shades of blue, black, and brown. And then, without any warning, all the colors sucked away into a jagged fissure, and Rinoa’s face was replaced by an empty, gaping chasm.

Her heart fluttered painfully.

She rolled her head to the side, but still the dream pursued her.

Her vision spiraled outward, pulling her away from what was happening. Further away now, she could see her entire body, though it appeared hazy like raindrops on water. It was all muddled, part her and part something foreign and frightening.

Next to the mottled chimera of her body stood Squall, fixed and dark in his leather jacket. His arms were extended around her growing girth, and she… _it_ …was consuming him, sucking him up until he was just a shadowy blush across her distorted breast.

Then, with a flash, Rinoa tore away from the dream and came awake in bed.

Her heart raced and for several long moments she lay there simply breathing, letting the images from her dream fade into the warm darkness surrounding her.

Angelo shifted slightly, scooting closer to Squall who was still resting peacefully. Squall slept like the dead. This was a repeat nightmare, one that had been plaguing her lately, but she never woke him up. Angelo, on the other hand, had begun spending more and more time on Squall’s side of the bed.

“Traitor,” Rinoa grumbled and turned her back on the dog. She closed her eyes and willed her faceless dream image to stay buried this time. Despite her best efforts, errant bits and pieces kept floating to the surface and when she couldn’t stand it anymore, she sighed and opened her eyes.

Outside, she could hear birds chirping. Pale, pre-dawn light filtered in through the window above the bed. She slipped out from under the covers and jogged across the cold tile to the bathroom.

As she hurried to do her business and get back in bed, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—a void of features, a stretching and distorting of color. She gasped and leapt back against the bathroom wall. Within a blink, the reflection was her own again. She leaned in and took a long, hard look at herself. Dark hair, rumpled from sleep. Round face. Dark eyes. The same face she’d always known. And yet…it still seemed foreign in some deeply disturbing, inexplicable way.

When Rinoa climbed back into bed, she pushed Angelo out of the way and scooted close to Squall. The dog gave her a dirty look before jumping down to the floor.

“Squall?” She nudged his shoulder with her chin. “Hey. Wake up. I need to talk to you.” Groping under the covers with her toes, she touched her cold feet to the back of Squall’s calf.

“Gah!” He pulled away.

Rinoa cuddled her face against his neck and found, now that he was awake, she had nothing to say. Her dream had been too silly to describe. And he’d shrug off the incident in the bathroom completely. Squall was doggedly realistic like that, even though he’d seen things in his life that defied rational explanation. He used magic every day but didn’t believe in what he couldn’t see, touch, and understand. Mostly, she liked that about him. She found it charming. Right now, she just wanted his company.

“I love you,” she told him.

“Mmm.” He’d started to drift away again. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“This isn’t about Laguna. Is it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He settled, his arms around her.

“You could have given him a chance though,” she said, hoping to keep him awake.

“Why?”

“Because he’s your father.”

“He’s not my father.”

“Maybe there’s a good reason that he…” Rinoa hesitated to say _abandoned_ , but couldn’t think of another word. “I mean, if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t have met. You wouldn’t be at Garden. The whole world might have ended.”

“So, what? It’s fate that he sent me off to to an orphanage?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t believe in fate. There are a million different things that could have happened. It’s just chance and bad luck that my father happens to be an idiot.”

“He’s been running Esthar for years now,” Rinoa pointed out. “He can’t be as dumb as you think.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. I’ve been in his head. I know exactly what goes on in there.”

Squall rolled over and gathered Rinoa tighter in his arms. His chest felt warm and solid against her cheek and his hands massaged gently across her back. His lips moved across her hairline and down her forehead. Squall was a gentle lover, all affection and loyalty. Strong and soft.

But headstrong, too. She wished Laguna could be a more regular part of their lives. She loved having Laguna around and knew that he could be a tremendous positive influence on Squall if the stubborn ox would let him. Squall’s lack of filial identity and loyalty occasionally gave Rinoa pause. If she disappointed him, would he leave her behind forever, too? Would he be just as unwilling to forgive? In tender moments like these, wrapped in the quiet comfort of his embrace, she thought that maybe Squall had a depth of emotion far beyond what everyone credited him. And perhaps that was why Laguna remained such a difficult topic. Any emotional arrow that hit sank deep.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Dunno.”

He sat up a little and looked around the room until he spotted Angelo on the floor. “How long have you been awake?”

She shrugged.

He kissed her. “This is bothering you that much?”

Rinoa nodded, though not to the question Squall thought he’d asked.

“Okay,” he said and sighed as if some massive burden had just been laid upon his chest. “I’ll try to be nice to him while he’s here. But I can’t promise anything miraculous will happen.”  
His vow didn’t make her feel any better. Nor did his hand running down her side, over the swell of her hip. Still, she allowed him to roll her onto her back, and then stared up at the ceiling, quietly trying to find herself, as he pressed a lazy kiss to the side of her neck.

* * *

Laguna swiveled around in his sweet smelling leather captain’s chair and took in the Balamb Malboro Club conference room. A pair of paintings took up one wall, both depicting Balamb in thick sweeps of still tacky looking paint. An opaque window, cracked open to allow in a mote of the sweet morning breeze, consumed another wall. And a lavish spread sat out on the glossy, dark wood table before him, a full complimentary buffet—Krier’s personal contribution to the event. Not that the man was present to enjoy it.

As Laguna ate a deviled egg, he looked across the room at the two body guards positioned by the door. His assistant, Sam, paced in front of them. Sam was punctual to a fault, the sort of person who arrived half an hour early for everything “just in case.” Krier’s tardiness was driving him up the wall. Privately, it concerned Laguna as well. Krier had military leaking out his pores. He’d constructed his entire life in the army. And Laguna’s own lack of attention to detail had been his major failing as a soldier. He, too, had arrived late to this meeting.

Sam sat down with an irritated grunt and began tapping out a rhythm against the table top.

“Want some fish?” Laguna offered. Sam looked borderline affronted by the suggestion. “Might as well enjoy it while we’re here,” Laguna pointed out. “We don’t have any Balamb fish in Esthar. They’re supposed to be a delicacy, you know.”

One of the bodyguards stepped away from the door and announced, “He’s here.” The other moved to cover Laguna as Krier walked in, the door seeming to blow open before him.

“President Loire. Good to see you.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit and red tie. His cuff links glimmered as he released the buttons down the front of his jacket. Laguna felt shabby but smug in his own khaki pants and bright blue polo.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” Laguna replied.

“You know what it’s like. Everything’s an emergency. I’m sorry if you had to wait long.” Krier filled his plate with an assortment of items from the table. “I like to take every moment that I have to eat. There’s so little time for that kind of thing in our line of work. Plus, I thought it might make for a more relaxing atmosphere.”

Laguna couldn’t imagine Jack Krier relaxing.

“Yeah. It’s tough being so important,” Laguna said dryly.

Krier looked for a moment like he might retort. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and, with a smile, announced, “I have a proposition for you.”

“I’d like some answers with that,” Laguna replied.

Krier tented his fingers and gazed over them. “About what?”

“Robert Shipey.”

“Oh. That.” He chuckled and ate a cracker topped with pate. “What is it that you’d like to know?”

“For one, who is he?”

“Robert Shipey is…or, _was_ a professor at Deling University,” Krier began. “You probably know that already. He is an expert in Ancient Centra. And, up until a few days ago, he was employed by the Galbadian government as part of a research committee.”

“Researching what?”

“Ancient Centran inscriptions.”

“And why did you hire him to do this?”

“I didn’t. I inherited him. One of the first things I did when I became president was to order a full review of the budget…find out where every last gil went. Shipey’s committee was expendable. I cut off their funding.”

“You fired him.”

“In a nutshell. Apparently, the wound is still fresh.”

Laguna chewed over this for a moment. The story made sense to him, and academics did tend to be more passionate about their jobs than most.

“Where is he now?”

“On a boat, on his way to prison where he’ll be charged with assault.” Krier forked a peach slice and ate it. “Is that all?”

Laguna, mostly satisfied, nodded. “So then…what’s this proposition of yours?”

Krier leaned forward. “Are you familiar with the phenomenon surrounding the Trabian Crater?”

“Of course.” The area about the Trabian Crater, a mysterious gash in the landscape just outside of Trabia Garden, was a no-fly zone. All of the instruments in modern aircraft, including Gardens, went wild over the crater, making navigation impossible. The dangerous effect was, as of yet, unexplained.

“I think this is something we should study. Both of our countries,” Krier explained. “If something similar were to pop up somewhere else, in some more central location, it could jeopardize both Estharn and Galbadian military operations. Not to mention foreign trade. It’s in our best interest, I think, to find out what’s causing the interference and figure out how to mitigate it.”

“What exactly is it you’re proposing?”

“A partnership. It’s no secret…Esthar is the most technologically advanced country in the world. I’d love to find this thing without your help…and, be sure, so would all of Galbadia. Imagine the value to a country like ours. We’re a ground force. Esthar is all about the air. The stars. This could be useful to us if weaponized. But we need your expertise.” Krier leaned back in his chair, evidently unhappy at having to reveal this fact.

“And so…?” Laguna promoted.

“So I propose we send a joint team to the crater. Half the men mine, half the men yours. Funding fifty-fifty. We share all information and reap equal benefits.”

Laguna glanced at Sam, who gave him a blank look. This wasn’t quite what either of them had anticipated. Such a mundane thing—a science expedition.

“Of course,” Krier continued, noting Laguna’s hesitation, “I hope this can be the first of many times our nations work together. You’re a Galbadian after all. And if the Second Sorceress War proved anything, it’s that we have to be united. There are forces out there greater than both of us. We may need the strength of both our countries to survive in the future. Think of this as a first step. Something simple to get the ball rolling.”

“Our scientists could do this without your help.”

“There’s the catch.” Krier smiled. “We’ve already been studying the crater for some time. And we think we’ve located the source of the phenomenon. It will just take us longer to confirm our suspicions without your help since the crater is right on your border and right next to a Garden which is much friendlier to you than it is to me. This is a gesture of good faith. We’re willing to share. And this technology could be very useful to Esthar.”

He had a point. The giant wall encircling Esthar had protected them for decades from ground assault by both making the city invisible from without and preventing anyone on foot from crossing into the city. But the fence did little to keep out airborne enemies. And the rest of the world wouldn’t remain earth-bound forever.

“How large an expedition are you thinking?” he asked.

“Small. A four man team.”

“Will that be enough?”

“That’s why we’re here in Balamb. I figured we could hire Garden to assist our men if they find anything. It’s neutral. It’s fair.”

It sounded like a solid plan. Squall could make sure that nothing went awry and that everyone involved remained honest. And Laguna liked the idea of making real peace for once.

“All right. We’ll pick out two people and provide half the money to hire Garden. I’ll arrange the contract,” Laguna offered. If Squall was still angry, it wouldn’t be a pleasant visit. But he was determined to patch things up with his son and this provided a legitimate excuse to make an appearance.

Krier looked pleased. “This will be a wonderful new beginning for both our countries, President Loire.”

As he left the Malboro Club with his men a few minutes later, Laguna felt convinced of that. Even if the people in Esthar didn’t approve of this alliance, it was in their best interest. The crater could provide them with some protection against aerial assault—something that had grown of increasing concern as technology continued to hemorrhage out of Esthar at an alarming rate. A few years from now, and ships like the Ragnarok would be common-place.

His limo sat waiting for him at the curb. Sam sat down across from him.

“What if Balamb Garden won’t agree to work with us?”

“Then we’ll go to Trabia Garden.” Laguna shrugged. “They are right next to the crater, after all.”

“Then why bother with Balamb Garden in the first place?” Sam asked.

Laguna frowned and twisted his wedding ring around his finger. He didn’t want to reflect upon that question or think about the possible implications—the obvious possibility that Krier was using Squall to manipulate him into agreeing. Maybe it had worked. Or maybe this was just the best choice for Esthar.

“You know…Squall’s been on his own for a long time now. He’s made his own family. He might not need anyone else.”

Sam’s bald honesty cut straight to Laguna’s core. He’d spent most of his life believing in optimism and that all things were possible. Age old enemies could be friends. Love would conquer all.

Then Raine died and his world turned upside down.

He’d come back to Winhill to find her gone, their child sent off to an orphanage. Somehow, he’d ended up here, president and fumbling through the motions. It felt wrong, all turned inside out. And he wasn’t sure how to fix it.

* * *

Quistis was on her way to the library when she spotted Laguna and his entourage striding through the front gate. Cadets walking by craned their necks and whispered, creating traffic jams as they paused on their way to their next class. Laguna looked mildly embarrassed by the attention but waved and nodded anyway as security guards crowded in around him.

Smiling to herself, Quistis strode up to him. She liked Laguna a lot. He had such a good heart that she found it impossible not to. Once he spotted her, Laguna pushed between two of his guards and release a chest puffing sigh of relief.

“Quistis. Thank God.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked and pushed her reading glasses higher on her nose so that she could see him clearly.

“I came to see Squall and the headmaster.”

“Squall?” Quistis winced. They all rode home together the night before and Squall, who had a way of throwing water on a fire even when he was in a good mood, had been a veritable blizzard. Everyone in the car had avoided eye contact and prayed that the car would move just a little bit faster. Everyone, that is, except for Rinoa who regaled them all with stories of her time as a revolutionary in Timber.

“Don’t worry.” Laguna reached out and touched her shoulder. “I came to talk business. I want to hire Garden.”

“Oh. Really?”

She wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved or disappointed. Squall was still angry enough with her over the spell-casting incident, and her with him over his selfish unwillingness to allow anyone else to be happy when he wasn’t, that part of her had hoped Laguna might be visiting in order to lay down the law with his son. But she was also glad, for Laguna’s sake, that he was allowing himself to move on. She knew how frustrating it could be to court Squall’s affection.

“I can take you up to the headmaster’s office,” she offered.

“That would be great.”

They moved through the crowd, past the directory, a troupe of men in suits following behind them.

“I probably should have called, but…” Laguna trailed off and shrugged. When they reached the elevator, Laguna turned to his men. “Please wait for me here. I’m in good hands.”

Quistis appreciated the sincere compliment. The Esthar security team looked uneasy but said nothing as the elevator doors slid shut. Quistis swiped her ID and pressed the button for the restricted third floor.

“Can I ask you something?” Laguna shoved his hands in his pockets. He wore the same light khaki pants as usual, plus sandals and a shirt buttoned not quite to the top and not quite to the bottom. His old army dog tags dangled around his neck. He looked relaxed, easy-going. But his expression was tense.

“Sure.”

“Has Squall always been…”

“A cold, unfeeling bastard?” Quistis provided. “Yeah. Always.”

“Even when he was little?”

“I don’t really remember much about when we were little,” she admitted. “He cried a lot at the orphanage after Ellone left, I think. And fought with Seifer. But I don’t ever remember him being particularly pleasant to be around.”

“I just can’t figure out how to get through to him.”

“You’re asking the wrong person.” Quistis couldn’t help the bitter, angry tone to her voice. Despite herself, she still sometimes felt sore over Squall’s utter lack of interest in her.

Laguna leaned back on his heels and wisely changed the subject. “Have plans to come back to Esthar anytime soon? We’d love to have you back at the presidential palace.”

“I’d love to come back for a while,” Quistis replied.

At that moment, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. As they stepped out, the receptionist looked up and smiled. “Quistis. President Loire. Can I help you?”

Laguna quickly explained his unexpected arrival and she vanished through the double doors to relay that information to Cid.

“You know,” Quistis said, hoping to fit in a last word with Laguna before he disappeared into his meeting, “Squall would be smart to let you back into his life. If I ever found one of my parents, I wouldn’t hesitate. It’s beyond me why he doesn’t quit this mercenary business and move in with you and Ellone. A loving family’s hard to come by.”

A soft, compassionate expression crossed Laguna’s face. “Thank you. We’ll talk more later. Hopefully, I’ll see you again soon.”

The receptionist walked back into the room and announced with a bright smile, “The headmaster will see you now.”

Quistis watched him walk into Cid’s office and wondered what sort of interesting, off-kilter mission he had in mind for Garden. The months she’d spent in Esthar had been happiest, most curious of her life. Laguna didn’t lack a sense of adventure.

Cheered by his visit, she felt light as she rode the elevator back down to the first floor. She glanced down at the book she had clutched in one hand—she’d been on her way to the library to return it when Laguna had side-tracked her. It was one of Dr. Odine’s many volumes. This one, called _Para-Magic: Finding God in the Forebrain_ , she had on interlibrary loan from Esthar University. The book chronicled his foundational work in junctioning with Guardian Forces.

She leafed through the pages—all 739 of them. Not exactly light reading. Quistis remained a scholar at heart. She knew the SeeD manual by heart, could talk for hours about historic battles and military maneuvers, but wasn’t quite as adept at applying everything she knew in the field. Her intellectual prowess had allowed her to breeze through her classes faster than any other cadet in the history of Garden. Cid, recognizing both her strengths and faults, had suggested instructorship to her. Though she’d lost the position more than two years ago, she still carried a torch for magical theory and dense academic work.

At the library, she dropped off her book and picked up a new one, a book of essays by the philosopher, Nerrida (a completely incomprehensible writer and thinker who Quistis read more for prestige than pleasure.) Holding the hefty volume to her chest, she set off to find Rinoa.

After a long search, she found her in the quad, throwing a tennis ball for Angelo.

“Hey.” She tossed the ball again. “What’s up?”

“I just ran into Laguna,” Quistis informed her.

“Yeah? What’s he doing here?” The way Rinoa’s eyes went wide let Quistis know she had the other girl’s interest.

“Discussing a contract with the Headmaster. He mentioned that he’d like to talk with Squall, too.”

* * *

Squall felt railroaded.

He sat in the chair next to Laguna with his arms crossed. He should have suspected something when Rinoa rushed up to him in the training center and told him that Cid needed to see him immediately. The entire way up to Cid’s office, he’d wondered why he hadn’t been paged. But he wasn’t in the habit of ignoring an emergency when it came up. Now that he knew what the emergency was—Laguna Loire—he resolved to be as unaccommodating as possible through out this meeting.

“What sort of time table are we looking at here?” Cid asked.

“Can’t quite say at this point,” Laguna replied. “Garden doesn’t have to stay in Trabia the entire time. I know you have other obligations. But we’d like you to stay close enough to respond if the team needs help.”

“I think we can handle that.” Cid chewed the end of his pen and navigate through a calendar on his computer. “What do you think, Squall?”

Forced to render his opinion, Squall ground out, “I think Krier is up to something.”

“Is this about Mr. Shipey?”

“You don’t think it’s odd that he was at the dinner?” Squall asked. “Or that the Galbadians hauled him off before we could finish questioning him?”

“Krier’s story checks out. We’ve got records of Shipey visiting Esthar to examine Ancient Centran documents in our heritage library.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Squall replied. Shipey’s occupation wasn’t the issue.

Laguna crossed his arms, mimicking his son’s body language. “This is a good opportunity for Esthar. I’ve made the decision. Aside from what we could find out from the crater, it’s not a bad idea to try and make friends with Galbadia.”

“No one in Esthar wants to be friends with Galbadia!”

“Esthar doesn’t always know what’s best for it!”

With their voices steadily rising, Cid cut in by clearing his throat.

“I’m going to draw up a contract and have you sign it before you leave,” he announced. “I’ll fax a copy to Krier.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ll pick up the two teams here and transport them to Trabia. They’ll need to do some basic paperwork first, but then they’ll be free to use all of Garden’s facilities.”  
Squall sat brooding.

“Why am I here if no one is going to listen to me?” he grumbled. He hadn’t meant the comment to be overheard, so he was surprised when Laguna turned on him.

“Not listen to _you_?”

He had the dignity to look ashamed. He’d never seen Laguna genuinely angry before.

“You don’t know everything, Squall. I’ve tried my damnedest to make things right with you. But you don’t seem to care about anyone but yourself.”

Squall thought about Rinoa. He cared for her more than anyone else in the world. Much more than he cared for himself. He’d easily give up his life for her. And with that thought, he remembered the promise he’d made to her that morning. Groaning inwardly, he looked at his father and took a deep breath, mentally preparing to swallow his pride.

“All right. Sorry. That was out of line.”

Laguna gave him a hard and tired look. “I know Ellone sent you into my past. But you didn’t see everything. There’s a good reason everyone you know is an orphan. Quistis, Selphie, Zell…they all lost their families. A lot of people died. I was a soldier and nobody in Winhill wanted me there except for Raine.”

Squall had seen first hand the frosty reception Laguna had gotten in the quaint, Galbadian village. Every day, he’d gone out to rid the town of monsters that the otherwise occupied Galbadian Army would have dealt with. He’d received room and board for his troubles, but little else. Squall understood what being hated merely on the basis of one’s profession felt like—SeeD was still a barely tolerated visitor in Fisherman’s Horizon.

“I went to Esthar to save Ellone,” Laguna continued. “By the time I got back, you and Raine were both gone. No one told me where they’d sent you. Ellone couldn’t stay in Esthar with me—not with Odine there—but Edea and Cid agreed to take her in and keep her safe. I had no idea you were there, too.”

They stared at each other for a moment, Laguna not sure if he’d made his point and Squall not sure whether it made any difference, until Cid steered the meeting back on track. “They were difficult times for us all,” he said quietly, then pushed a piece of paper across the desk to Laguna. “But the future is looking better. I never dreamed Esthar and Galbadia would be working together.”

Laguna nodded, his face flushed, and scrawled his name across the bottom of the contract. Squall, grateful for the change in topic, hoped it would preclude him from having to respond to Laguna. He hadn’t learned anything new. But he’d never given Laguna the chance to say it all out loud either. Now he felt just wanted to get up and leave.

“We’ll be in touch,” Cid said as he took the contract back. “Have a safe trip back to Esthar.”

Squall took the opening as Laguna and Cid shook hands to escape. He reached the elevator and savagely punched the down button. Still, it moved at a painful crawl, and Laguna stood at his side before the doors opened. He stood funny, favoring one leg. Muscle cramp?

“Thanks for listening,” he said quietly. “Means a lot to me.”

Squall shrugged.

They rode the elevator down to the first floor in silence. Despite himself, Squall did feel a little more at ease. Part of him wanted to believe that Laguna had always meant to be a real parent. It was a brilliant fantasy, after all—an orphan separated from his loving father by a grave mistake, only to find one another again years later. But Squall had grown too old to entertain such fantasies. Maybe if Laguna had shown up when he was eight or twelve. But now? It was too late. He was too far gone.

“Tell Rinoa I said hello,” Laguna said as the elevator doors opened.

“I will.”

“And…” he paused, his hands in his pockets. “You should know that I don’t trust Krier either. I’d like you to keep an eye on things.”

With a small smile and a wave, Laguna walked away, his security detail flocking around him before he got halfway to the directory. Squall turned to go find Rinoa, juggling mixed feelings he didn’t understand.

* * *

Quistis had a date.

She didn’t date often, though not because she didn’t want to. Rather, she almost never got asked. The Trepies kept their distance, admiring her from the shadows like they always had, and everyone else treated her with the kind of polite reverence reserved for heads of state. She’d been told by those in the know (namely, Rinoa) that she intimidated “normal” men.  
Maybe so. This particular date wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped.

They walked toward the docks together, admiring the sunset and the seabirds, while Quistis wracked her brain for something intelligent they could talk about.

“Where is it you said you were from, again?”

“Right here in Balamb.”

“You must know Zell pretty well then.”

“Not really. I’m three years older than Zell.”

Her date, Nathan Wassman (“Nate” he insisted, though most everyone in Garden called him “Wass”) was a twenty five year old instructor. Quistis had known of him for years but had never spoken to him until they found themselves together in the lunch line It felt so adolescent, to be asked out over a half pint of two percent milk and a plastic tray, but he was smart and handsome.

The only problem seemed to be that he was also boring.

“Do you fish?” she asked as they reached the edge of the dock.

“Do you?”

“Not really. I’m not very good at it.”

“Same here.”

She considered telling him the story of her first fishing trip at the orphanage. The first thing she’d reeled in—a small, humpbacked thing that swallowed the hook—had to be put out of its misery by Seifer, who enjoyed that part the most. It had sat in the dirt beside her most of the day, it’s head crushed flat, blood and brains splattered like a halo around it until finally, after pulling in bare hook after bare book, she’d given up and sat down with two sticks to begin a careful dissection of the fish’s hump. Much more interesting than fishing, in her book.

She considered it a pleasant memory of her childhood and didn’t feel like sharing it yet with Nate Wassman.

“Why’d you decide to join Garden?” she asked, determined to ferret something interesting out him.

“There’s not much else to do in Balamb.”

Quistis sighed and flopped down on a bench overlooking the harbor. A gull flew down and landed at her feet.

The evening had started out so well. She couldn’t quite pinpoint where it turned sour. They’d gone out for Trabian, where Quistis consumed a meal so rich and filling that it stretched the limits of her control top hosiery. Maybe she’d been too distracted by the food to notice Nate shelling out gil but little else. Now she felt full and tired. Sitting beside him with the sound of the sea at her feet, all she wanted to do was go home and sleep.

“How about you? What made you want to be a SeeD?” he asked.

“I never really made the choice. My family sent me to Garden. I guess it worked out all right in the end.”

Nate reached across her lap and took her right hand in his. His palm felt cool, dry, and hard.

Quistis adverted her eyes. He’d bought her dinner, tried his best, and she didn’t want to come off as unapproachable and rude. But holding hands with him wasn’t on her list of things to do…ever.

When she turned her head away from him, she noticed a fishing boat coming into the harbor. Its metallic sails glinted in the evening light. From the look of it, she guessed the ship had come out of Dollet. Men scrambled about the deck, folding the sails in as the hull glided through the water. She could hear their voices as they called to one another and moved with considerable grace around the rigging.

“Way I see it, for a kid from Balamb, being a SeeD is miles above becoming one of _those_ ,” Nate said, interrupting the scene.

“What? A sailor? I can see why it might appeal to some people.”

He arched an eyebrow, challenging her to make her case.

“A wandering spirit,” she suggested, the cliche making her feel a little silly. “Love of the sea.”

“More like no appreciable job skills or an arrest warrant.”

“That’s a stereotype.”

“And your idea of some mystical mariner isn’t?”

She glared at him, but he didn’t let go of her hand. They sat in tense silence as the ship stopped at the dock, waves splashing hard against its stocky hull, and the sailor’s disembarked off the starboard side. They were an odd assortment, running the whole gamut between young and old, but all men. They stumbled past on their sea legs in a cacophony of laughs and curse words. One held back from the others, clearly not part of the group.

His blond hair peeked out from under the knit hat he had pulled down over his ears and curled around his collar where it had groan long and unruly. A scruffy beard have his jaw a seriousness and weight that it never had before. But his eyes were the same hot, hostile green, and the scar across the bridge of his nose the same angry red.

He glanced down at Quistis’s hand, clasped in Nate’s, and then, as if he’d seen nothing at all, continued on after the rest of the sailors.

“Was that…?” Nate sounded dumbstruck.

Quistis jerked her hand away, suddenly ashamed. Maybe she’d have to give Nate the point about sailors.


	4. Shadow of Doubt

Jack Krier sat at his desk, adding his signature to a pile of documents. He didn’t bother to read through them. Usually, he maintained a stringent policy on paperwork. He liked to know everything about everything. But he hadn’t anticipated the more mundane duties he would have as president. Currently, he was working through a pile of congratulatory letters being sent to students who’d won a government scholarship to study at Galbadia Garden (the “Presidential” scholarship). His hand was just beginning to cramp when the phone on his desk rang.

“Nancy. Have you called the stamp people?” he asked when he picked up.

“Yes, sir,” his secretary replied. “It should be here any day.”

Krier had anticipated a momentous first hundred days in office, the beginning of an administration neither Galbadia or the world would ever forget. He didn’t like waiting while his staff organized themselves and spent precious time on trivial things like community outreach and personalized letterhead. Like he gave a shit whether his letters were topped with a colorful, embossed logo bearing his name. Security, defense, and war: those were the things he wanted to be attending to. Not little Jimmy’s crayon scribbling about his new puppy named Jack. (Nancy had passed that particular gem onto him because she thought it was “cute.”)

“Sir,” she said, interrupting his thoughts, “the two from Deling City University are here.”

“Send them in.”

He pushed aside the scholarship letters.

A moment later, Nancy ushered a man and a woman into his office. The man, Duran Kitsuma, was compact and square with a mane of bushy, brown hair. From underneath it, he gave Krier an appraising glance.The woman, Crecentia Fellows, was precisely what one would expect of a young lady planning a career in the military: tall and lean with dark brown hair chopped close to her face; an even, chestnut complexion; and a no-nonsense demeanor.

Krier extended his hand. They both shook it in turn.

“Thank you, Nancy.”

She left, closing the door behind her, and Krier motioned for the two to sit in the chairs across his desk.

“I’ve taken the liberty of getting you both some reconnaissance.” He pulled a manilla folder out of his right hand desk drawer. “Courtesy of our good friends at Galbadia Garden.” He slid a few glossy satellite photographs across the desk.

Crecentia narrowed her eyes as she looked down at the jagged form of the crater.

“These areas here,” Krier said, pointing to a few red circles on the photo, “are where we’re going to be excavating. I’ll provide you with coordinates once you’re in Balamb.”

Crecentia and Duran both nodded.

Reaching into the manilla folder, Krier slid a thick packet across to each of them and tucked the satellite photos away.

“This,” he began with relish, “is information on everyone you’ll be working with. The two members of the Esthar team are on top. One of them you’ve already met. Underneath that are profiles of the Balamb Garden SeeDs you’ll contend with, arranged according to rank. Pay special attention to Squall Leonhart. He could be trouble.”

“Aren’t these all the SeeDs who defeated the sorceress?” Duran asked as he flipped through their pictures.

“They are. That’s the reason why we’re contracting with Balamb. Which brings me to the last bit of information I have for you.”

The final paper he slid across the desk had a large, red “Classified” stamp across the top. Below the stamp, someone had paper clipped a photograph of a dark-haired woman sitting on a bench, petting a dog. Duran and Crecentia both leaned forward to get a better look.

“This does not leave my office,” Krier said. “It took us quite a while to confirm this, since Caraway has been less than helpful and Garden is particularly tight lipped about it. But now we’re sure. She is the last.”

* * *

Irvine had been drinking.

Outside the Balamb City Hotel, he leaned against the wall and let the cool ocean air soothe his heated skin. His scalp contracted against the sudden chill of the wall when he touched his head against it. In the dark, he could feel the low hum of alcohol in his veins. Usually, he wasn’t a heavy drinker. He couldn’t quite hold his liquor, and whenever he set out to get drunk, he always ended up with his head in the nearest trash can, power vomiting across the Saturday morning post.

Tonight, he’d gone to the Balamb Hotel intending only to visit their restaurant. On Saturdays, the grill had a special on spicy chicken wings. He’d planned to gorge himself on greasy food, then crash at Zell’s for a long night of food induced slumber. Then a platinum blonde sent him a drink and then evening had gone off on its own course.

He felt a little sick but too out of body to tell whether it was serious. It didn’t feel like the sudden urgency of rising gorge, just a mild unpleasantness.

“Hey. You okay?”

The blonde stood before him, radiant in the moonlight.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I could drive you home or something.”

“Baby, you could drive me wherever you like,” he replied with a grin, more out of habit than actual interest.

“Okay.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her car keys. “Which way is home for you?”

“Garden.”

She laughed. “Yeah? What rank SeeD are you?”

“The top, of course.”

“Every kill anyone?” she asked, her lips now curved into a smile somewhere between playful and serious.

“Once or twice.”

“On missions?”

“Sure.”

“Every assassinate anybody?”

“Once…” Unsuccessfully, but he thought it counted. He picked up his pace a little as they walked together down main street, toward where she’d presumably parked her car. The sooner he got back to Garden, the better. He didn’t have long before he threw up or passed out.

When they passed by Zell’s house, Irvine noticed the kitchen light on behind a pair of gauzy, white curtains and the smell of baking cookies flowing out into the street. Zell had decided to spend his last night before Garden set off for Trabia with his family, the lucky bastard. Irvine would have liked a similar adoption experience. But he’d been sent off to Galbadia Garden, split from the other children he’d grown up with and the tiny fraction of family he’d established with them. He’d covered up the loneliness by surrounding himself with anything that made him feel empowered, including guns and women.

“Here we go,” the blonde said and stopped at a small, yellow car. “Hop in.”

He did. He fumbled with the seat belt buckle and almost knocked his head against the window when she made a hard turn, aiming them back into the heart of the city.

“Where are you going? Garden’s back that way?”

“The whole SeeD thing is cute. But you can drop it now.”

Irvine stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’re way too trashed to be any good to anyone, so you can drop the routine.” She turned down a residential street, the darkened houses moving slowly by the car windows.

“Routine?” Irvine said incredulously. Granted, he had a routine, but masquerading as a mercenary in small town bars wasn’t part of his repartee. He had to lift his butt up off the seat to fish his wallet out of his coat pocket. The woman watched him out of the corner of her eye as he flipped it open and dumped out a few stray gil and some rumpled photographs. From the pile, he extracted his ID and handed it to her.

“Oh.” She slowed the car to a crawl. “You’re…Irvine Kinneas?”

For the first time in his life, he felt embarrassed admitting so.

“Gosh…I’m sorry.” She handed him his ID back and turned the car around. “I guess I just thought that…A couple of guys I used to know joined up, and they had all these strict rules about cadets and how they could behave in public, so I just thought that a SeeD would be…or, _wouldn’t_ be…” She trailed off, the heat of both their humiliation seeming to eat up oxygen until she cracked the window, letting the cool night air in.

Garden did have strict rules about promiscuity and public intoxication, all of which cadets and SeeDs flaunted at every given opportunity, though most not so brazenly as Irvine. He didn’t feel like explaining the particulars of his situation to her and sank down into his seat, content to let her come to her own conclusions. Best case scenario, she’d think him a tragic figure—broken by the battle with Ultimecia. It sounded less ridiculous than the truth.

By the time they got back to Garden, Irvine felt terrible all-around. He climbed out of the car and managed to hold himself together until her tail lights disappeared, and then he sank down into the grass and emptied his stomach. When he finished, he felt steady enough to walk through the front gate, along the brightly lit hallway all the way to his dorm room. Somehow, he avoided Garden faculty the whole way. Grateful, he slid his ID through the pad by his door and waited.

Nothing happened.

So he slid the ID through again. Still…nothing.

“Damn it!” He slammed his fist into the wall. “Open up!”

A door down from his slid open and Selphie peeked her head out. “Irvy?”

 _Great. Perfect._

Selphie had on a pair of white flannel pajamas covered in pink rabbits. They looked like the kind people in movies wore. She jogged over to him in her matching fuzzy bunny slippers.

“What’s the matter?”

“Stupid door hates me or something,” he grumbled. He showed her what he meant. Selphie just smiled at him and took the card.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she said gently and slid it through on her own, making sure to flip it so the magnetic strip faced the other direction. A green light blinked on and his door hissed open.

“Oh…thanks.”

“Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

He looked down at himself and brushed some stray bits of grass from his knees. “Not feeling so hot, I guess.”

“I thought you were staying at Zell’s tonight.” She placed a hand in the middle of his back and guided him inside. “Is that why you came back? You’re sick?”

Irvine shrugged and Selphie sat him down on the edge of the bed. She took off his boots and his trench coat, then began unzipping his vest. Irvine grabbed her wrist to stop her. Of all the times he’d imagined Selphie undressing him—and there had been many—he’d never once imagined this. He didn’t want this wretched moment to involve her. She frowned at him but let go, walking instead to the sink where she wet down a washcloth. The cool material felt blissful against his skin when she pressed it to his face.

While he lay there with the washcloth over his eyes, he heard her walk across the room, fill a glass with water, and then set it down on the nightstand beside his bed.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow,” she assured him. “Goodnight, Irvy.”

The door hissed open, then shut as she left. Alone in the dark, Irvine felt a painful jab of guilt much more unpleasant than the uneasy rumbling of his stomach or the pounding in his head. He and Selphie were not a couple, though not because he didn’t want to be. He flirted, gave her all of his affection. Anything more than that seemed to frighten her away. So they were…something. He didn’t know what. But he did know that she deserved better. Someone honorable who’d be by her side no matter what, who’d be faithful without having to be asked.

Selphie had never asked anything of him.

He wished she would.

* * *

Squall was happy to get away from the cafeteria and into the quiet sanctity of his office. The night before had been a rough one for most of his friends, with the notable exception of Zell who arrived at breakfast with a plate full of still steaming cookies and a brand new T-Board.

Irvine, visibly hung over, sat clutching a cup of coffee. He stared down into it without looking up, even while Selphie chatted away at him from across the table. Blithely naive, she told everyone that he’d come down with something the night before.

And Quistis was cranky, even for Quistis. Her date hadn’t gone well. She said something about him being boring, and something about wanting to rip his eyes out, as she speared bits of egg onto her fork, whipping it around as she spoke. Bits and pieces splattered Squall’s pancakes. No matter how often he grumbled and brushed it away, she didn’t seem to get the hint. Rinoa only made matters worse, feeding Quistis’s anger with statements like, “What a jerk!” and “We should just become nuns.”

The crowning moment of the evening had apparently been the arrival of Garden’s own prodigal son, Seifer Almasy.

“Did you talk to him?” Rinoa asked.

“Why would I talk to him?”

“To find out what he’s been doing. Why he’s in Balamb.”

“It was obvious. He’s working. He’s a sailor now.”

“Did he see you, too?”

“He looked right at me.”

“And he didn’t say anything?”

Quistis shrugged. “He just glanced at me and then kept walking. He acted like he didn’t even know me.”

Squall thought now, reflecting upon the morning, that the entire conversation might have been more interesting if Seifer  _had_ said something. He preferred blood to ink. At the moment, looking down at the paperwork spread across his desk, he felt a particularly sharp pang of nostalgia for the good old days when all he had to concern himself with was winning the next fight Seifer picked with him.

“What time will we be leaving at?” Rinoa asked from her perch in one of the chairs across Squall’s desk. She’d followed him after breakfast. She wore her blue duster, which he still felt fond of, so he didn’t mind her company.

“Probably not until later this afternoon,” Squall replied while organizing the papers on his desk into discreet piles.

“Oh.” She fiddled with the ring hanging around her necklace, looking bored.

“Why don’t you go to the library?”

“I’ve already been there once today.”

“How about the quad?”

“Not much to do there when we’re just sitting in Balamb.”

“The Training Center?” Squall ventured.

“No challenge there.” She sounded moody.

“Something bothering you?” he asked.

“No.” She shrugged. “I’m just really restless today. I don’t know. I feel like…like I can’t find anything to do that’s _satisfying_.”

Squall had a comment about satisfying her on the tip of his tongue but recognized this probably wasn’t the best opportunity to use it. He let the moment of wit slide, choosing instead to clasp his hands and give her a long look across the desk.

“Listen,” he began, “I’ve got a lot to do preparing for—”

The phone rang, interrupting him mid-sentence. He held up a finger to Rinoa and answered.

“The two science teams have arrived, sir. They’re waiting,” said his secretary on the other end of the line.

“Okay. Send them in.” He hung up and waved a hand through the air to show Rinoa that he had no choice in the matter. “I’ve got a meeting right now. But we’ll have dinner together. Okay?”

She didn’t look pleased. As she stood up to leave, the door to Squall’s office swung open and his secretary ushered four people inside. The first two, resplendent in their traditional Estharan robes with pastel accents and giant bell sleeves that hid their hands, kept their faces hidden under large, consuming hats. Evidently, they considered this a formal occasion. Next to them, the Galbadians appeared startlingly casual, though they had on pleated pants and shirts with crisp, clean lines.

Rinoa paused on her way out to say hello. The two Estharans paid her little regard, but the Galbadians’ gaze lingered on her. Squall wondered whether they remembered her from the part she’d played in Timber’s rebellion, or if they’d seen the spectacle of Edea’s parade through Deling City. Rinoa didn’t exactly have a low profile in Galbadia between her famous mother, sinfully rich father, and checkered political past.

He let out a sigh of relief when she closed the door behind her, leaving him alone to conduct business without thoughts of Ganeral Caraway, sorceresses, or botched assassinations getting in the way.

The four introduced themselves in turn, the Galbadians as Duran Kitsuma and Crecentia Fellows, and the Estharans as Nik Vallen and Reiss Tehmuran. Squall forgot their names almost instantly. He hoped he wouldn’t have to remember them or be involved in this entire mission at all past this preliminary meeting.

“I’ve got some forms for you to fill out. Once you’re done with them, I’ll take you on a tour of our facilities. You’ll be staying in the dorms for the time that you’re with us. You’ll share, two to a room.”

From one of his desk drawers, he pulled out ID cards that had been up.

“These are your passes for everything in Garden. You can use them to purchase meals in the cafeteria, to check out books in the library, and to rent vehicles from the garage. You’ll also use them as keys to get into your room and in security panels to access restricted facilities. You’ll be able to access our labs with these.” He pushed a bundle of pens toward them, then indicated the four piles of paperwork he’d prepared. “We can go over the rest of the details later.”

He sat and worked quietly on his computer while the four stumbled through the documents, each furrowing their brow and nibbling at the end of their pen. One of them men from Esthar looked particularly alarmed. Squall guessed that he’d probably gotten to the medical waivers, which absolved Garden of any responsibility for a whole host of ailments working in the crater could produce—everything ranging from violent death to irreversibly sterility.

Despite the roadblocks, they finished with time to spare. Squall took them on a whirlwind tour, and by the time he arrived back at the dorms, his stomach was rumbling for lunch.

“We’ll be leaving for Trabia in a few hours,” he told them. “It will be a few days total travel time. I’ll let you know when we’ve arrived and you can get to work.”

They all nodded.

“Anything you’ll need from us in the meantime?” he asked.

“No,” the Galbadian, Duran, replied. “We have everything we need. Thank you.”

 _Good_ . He didn’t want to assign anyone to this drudgery. Exploring the Trabian Crater? Sounded like grunt work to him. He’d been there, and had seen nothing for miles but bare dirt and rock. 

Back in his office, he folded their paperwork into a folder and paged Quistis Trepe.

0 0 0

Quistis sipped a cup of tea and crossed her legs. A gentle ocean breeze whispered through her skirt and the gauzy umbrella over her table cast a cool, dim shadow. It would have been pleasant had the patio table in front of her been covered in food rather than a bursting file folder that Squall had handed off to her like a dirty diaper earlier that afternoon. She couldn’t believe he’d given her extra work on their last day in Balamb for God knows how long, effectively turning her relaxing lunch date with Irvine into an office meeting.

By the time Irvine arrived, looking better than he had that morning, she’d worked herself up into a lather over it.

“Just because I’m smart doesn’t meant that I _enjoy_ dull, tedious reading.”

“The books I see you reading make me doubt that statement,” Irvine replied. “What do you have there, anyway?”

“Forms.”

“Yeah? Lucky you.”

Quistis sighed and picked up the first one in the pile. Squall had asked her to look through the bundle and simply instructed, “Learn what you can.” Honestly, she didn’t see anything to learn here. What did Squall expect? That one of them might write something incriminating down? This pointless exercise felt more like punishment. He must have figured out that she’d been the one to tip off Rinoa to Laguna’s visit and this was his passive-aggressive payback.

“So,” Irvine prompted, “what do they say?”

“Not much. Basic stuff.” She scanned over the documents. “Duran Kitsuma—grew up in Forcena in Galbadia, attended Deling City University on a military scholarship where he earned an advanced degree in engineering.”

“Focena, huh? Nice place, but totally in the boonies.”

“The boonies?”

“Yeah. Middle of nowhere. How about the rest of them?”

“Umm…Crecentia Fellows is pretty much a carbon copy of Duran. Same program, same school, same scholarship.” Krier certainly hadn’t gone far to find his people. “And the two from Esthar…let’s see. There’s Nik Vallen who’s in applied physics and Reiss Tehmuran who’s working on his doctorate in geology.”

“Engineers, a physicist, and a geologist? What’s that mean?”

Quistis closed the file and pushed it aside. “Nothing. It’s irrelevant.”

“Squall must think it means _something_.”

“I think he’s just worked up over this mission because we’re doing it for Laguna.”

Irvine shrugged. “I don’t know about that. You should have seen the way they handled that guy who punched President Krier. Plus, why’d they let him come to Balamb in the first place if he’d been fired?”

“Maybe. But I don’t see that it has anything to do with these people. Or the crater.”

“Squall’s got good instincts about this sort of thing. I think you should trust them.”

Quistis bit back a comment about how  _she_ had been the one to teach  _him_ to be a SeeD. It didn’t make any difference now, she supposed. The student had eclipsed the teacher. And it would only make her look old and bitter to bemoan the loss of her place as Garden’s golden child.

“So, you think the Galbadians are up to something, too?” she asked.

Irvine gave a non-committal shrug. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine why anybody’d want to read old Centran books. But I also don’t think that the Galbadians really want to be friends with the Estharans.”

A waiter appeared at their table. Irvine ordered a little of everything while Quistis restricted herself to a small plate of chicken cacciatore and a side salad.

“You must be feeling better,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d manage to keep your coffee down this morning.”

A shadow of guilt moved across Irvine’s face. That morning, as the last two at the breakfast table, united in their mutual irritation over life and, in particular, love they’d felt an unusually tight bond. Lunch together had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“What did you do last night, anyway?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Quistis arched an eyebrow. “You’ve gotta know that Selphie won’t look the other way forever. If you really want to be with her someday, you should think about taming things down a little or she’ll never trust you. Not to mention, you could catch something someday. And there’s no going back after that.”

“Don’t lecture me,” he grumbled.

“I’m just saying.”

“You’re not really in a position to be shelling out advice.”

“What do you mean?” Their lunch was taking an antagonistic turn, surprising Quistis. Irvine wasn’t usually an easy man to nettle.

“Let’s see…this last guy was too boring.” He counted off fingers. “And the one before that you dumped because he had a cat. Don’t know what that was such a problem…”

“It wasn’t the cat itself. It was the way he talked to it.”

“Okay. Sure. Point is, you’re building a reputation, too. That’s why nobody asks you out anymore.”

Quistis tried not to take that personally. Irvine still looked miserable, after all, with his eyes half hidden under his hat, his skin paler than usual. He reached across the table, snagged her tea cup, and took a drink.

“Back to the point,” he said. “What are you going to tell Squall?”

“There’s nothing to tell. These people are grad students. Granted, the Galbadians are military to the core, but that’s to be expected.”

“You’re really not the least bit suspicious?” Irvine asked. “You’re not curious where Dr. Shipey is at right now?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. A few days in jail, a slap on the wrist at the worst. Seifer tried to assassinate Deling and they made him a General. Shipey’s probably already gotten a promotion for showing so much martial initiative.”

“That’s sorta what I thought at first, too,” Irvine mused. “But now…it all strikes me as a little bit weird.”

Their food arrived and Quistis pushed her paperwork aside. Squall and Irvine were just being paranoid, she decided. What were the chances, after all, that they’d all get caught up in not one, but  _two_ plots to take over the world?

0 0 0

Bob Shipey sat slumped in the dark against the wall of his cell. His head ached. A thick, rough scab had finally grown over the gash above his right eye. Part of his brain sat locked in denial. He just  _couldn’t_ be in prison. Not someone like him. He’d never so much as run a red light. He had the respect of everyone in his field, had presided over conferences and published in strict academic journals. He had tenure!

Yet, here he sat on the cold cement floor in this dark, silent cell. He couldn’t figure out what prison he’d been sent to. This room didn’t have any bars, just a heavy, metal door with a tiny glass window that peered out into a hallway with fluorescent, overhead lights. He didn’t know how long he’d been locked away for either. His cell had no windows, no way of marking time. And he hadn’t been provided with any means of entertaining himself. So that precluded any composing of prison-time poetry or reflective memoirs. Not that he could have written anything in the dark, even if someone had thought to give him a pen.

He’d drifted off deep into his own thoughts when the door opened. Shipey had to shade his eyes to make out the blocky from striding toward him.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Shipey. How are you doing today?”

Lights flared on overhead, illuminating Jack Krier’s smiling face.

Shipey stared at him with bleary eyes.

“Good? You shouldn’t be, you know. Not with that stunt you pulled.”

Shipey watched as Krier motioned his two security guards to leave, then settled on the edge of the cot. Krier’s weight made the bed sag in the middle and the entire thing looked for a moment like it might fold in half. Shuddering, it held.

“What did you hope to accomplish, Bob? Do You even know who was at that dinner? You could have ruined everything.”

Shipey shook his head. “I don’t know what good I thought it would do. I just know that you have no idea what you’re doing, the forces you’re messing with.” His voice sounded rough and low.

“Yes. Well, that’s why I have you. Or… _had_ you. Not sure if I can keep you now.”

Shipey didn’t know what to say to that.

Krier regarded him for a moment, then sighed.

“But you are the leading expert in your field. A bit hard to replace. And trust me, I tried. So, I’ve got a little job for you, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“A job?”

“Why the sulky tone? I figured you’d jump at the chance to make yourself useful again.” He tapped some rolled up sheets of paper against his knee. “These are fresh out of Esthar. The last ones weren’t all that useful and we need more information, especially now that we have men in the field.”

Though Shipey disliked Krier’s act first, think later logic, he felt tempted. Dreadfully tempted.

Krier leaned forward.

“This isn’t meddling, you know. You’re the scholar here. You know things don’t work out magically on their own. There’s isn’t some benevolent force in this world that will show up to save us. Knowledge is all we’ve got. And it’s our duty to _act_ on that knowledge.”

He dropped his stack of photocopies on the floor in front of Shipey. Blocky script splashed across them, highlighted in shades of black and gray. It gave Shipey a sense of reaching into the ether, of breathing deep eternity, to read Ancient Centran and hear its shadowy voice in his head. Despite himself, he ran his fingers across the page, half expecting the familiar Braille of tool marks on stone. The smooth paper reminded him of his smallness and how out of place he felt here, neck deep in the workings of governments, the world, and the universe. Not knowing right from wrong, unable to tell the difference, wore on him.

Still, his eyes scanned over the first lines of writing. Most of the letters, he recognized. A few were local variants he’d have to spend a few moments extrapolating, probably introduced when the tablet in question was copied by a second scribe. But on the very first page, he saw a word that even Jack Krier now knew how to translate. He knew that was why Krier stood here now, asking him this favor.

“I’m going to need some things…” Shipey announced.

“Great!” Krier settled his hand on Shipey’s shoulder. “Don’t let this little set back get you down, Bob. I’ll have my men check on you. Let them know when you’re done and what you’ve learned.” He produced a small pad of paper and a pen, on which he had Shipey write down an essential list of supplies. It took several seconds as he recorded what he’d need. Armed with the list, Krier left with a promise to have everything delivered within the hour. Thankfully, he also left the lights on as well as his pen and the notepad.

A lifetime of work had led Shipey to this place, to these documents. Two years ago when the world titled on its axis and he’d realized the ultimate importance of his work, he’d been overjoyed. But things had a way of spiraling out of control. He felt relieved now to find himself out of the decision making process, allowed to work without considering what it all might mean.

He spread the photocopies across the concrete and with his pen began placing vertical slashes between the crunched together words of Ancient Centran script:  _Vascaroon / believes / Hyne / still / lives_ .


	5. The Crater

Balamb Garden took three days traveling at full speed to touch ground in Trabia. Quistis spent much of her free time reading, exercising in the Training Center, and attempting to avoid Instructor Nate Wassman, who was operating under the delusion that their date had gone extraordinarily well. She found it easier to sprint from a room every time he entered it than to shoot him down as he stared at her, innocent and wide eyed. But he had a pervasive presence. Everywhere she went, he showed up.

Presently, she was taking refuge on the bridge, playing Triple Triad with Xu.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Squall asked. He had once shoulder pressed up against the window as he stared at the trees outside.

Xu looked over the top of her cards at Quistis, rolled her eyes, and said, “Nope!” She laid down a Leviathan card and flipped over Quistis’s Ifrit. A necessary sacrifice. Quistis tried not to betray her plan as she looked over the cards.

Balamb Garden had been sitting idle in the middle of Trabia for two weeks now. Battling snow lions had become mind bogglingly routine, and in Trabia there wasn’t much else to do. Even the scientists produced little of interest, returning every evening smudged, sunburned, and empty-handed. They hadn’t run any lab tests, hadn’t borrowed any equipment, and certainly didn’t seem to be part of any plot to overthrow the world’s sovereign and peaceful governments. In fact, the entire mission had proven downright boring.

Quistis saw Squall’s reflection scowl.

Rinoa, who sat watching Quistis and Xu play, let out a sigh that blew one of the cards off the table. Xu gave her an evil look.

“How much longer are we going to stay here?” she asked.

“However long it takes, I guess,” Squall replied.

Xu slapped a preventative hand down across their cards as Rinoa sighed again.

“I _hate_ Trabia,” she grumbled.

The statement was out of character enough to draw all of their attention. Even Squall turned from his vigil at the window. Rinoa had been irritable since leaving Balamb, a mysterious malaise steadily eroding her eternal optimism. Cabin fever, Quistis had thought. They all had it. But this statement shifted her diagnosis toward something more serious. She’d never heard Rinoa say that she hated anything, and in the past she’d always professed a deep, abiding love for Trabia. It reminded her, she often said, of Timber before the Galbadian occupation.  _Maybe she’s sick_ , Quistis thought.  _Or pregnant._ No way Quistis was going to bring that thorny possibility up. 

Quistis put down another card which Xu turned over on her next move.

“I’ll play the winner,” Squall offered. He flopped down across from Rinoa and watched her over the top of one crossed leg.

With one card left in her hand, Quistis smiled at Xu.

“Can’t we at least go visit Trabia Garden? Or Esthar?” Rinoa asked.

“No way I’m going to Esthar,” Squall replied.

Rinoa stuck out her tongue at her boyfriend, and Quistis waited for the atmosphere to settle before playing her last move.

“Same plus combo!” she declared and began turning over cards. Vinzer Deling’s gnarled face had never looked beautiful to her before now as it peered up from the middle of all those cards.

“What the hell is _that_?” Xu demanded.

“New commemorative card. I won it off Cid the other day.”

“Commemorative?” Rinoa barked. “Of what? The people in Timber and Dollet killed under his orders?”

“Well, he is a martyr now, you know,” Quistis pointed out. “Plus, he just won me the game.”

“Dictators,” Rinoa stated firmly, “should not have their own cards.”

With that, the card flashed and burst into leaping flames, singeing Quistis’s fingertips. She swore and tossed it to the ground where Squall smothered it with his boot.

“What the hell? Rinoa!”

She flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to!” She hugged her arms tightly around herself. “Guess I’m feeling a little…high strung. It’s just being locked up here is driving me crazy.”

Quistis frowned and pocketed the remainder of her only slightly blackened cards. Deling had been her ace in the hole. Now he was nothing more than a pile of ash stuck to the bottom of Squall’s shoe. She couldn’t help but feel irritated. Arms crossed, she huffed. Xu remained reserved but slid down in her chair to stay under the sparks flying between the agitated threesome.

“I agree,” Squall finally said. “We can’t keep sitting here like this.”

Rinoa perked up.

“Nothing we can do about it,” Quistis said. “Orders are orders.”

“Right. And our orders are to assist in the investigation. So…we’ll assist.” He grabbed a piece of Balamb Garden stationary and began scratching words across it in his tiny, straight penmanship.

“What’s that?” Quistis asked.

“Orders.” He finished and signed his name at the bottom. “For you and Zell. I want you to go out with the two teams into the crater tomorrow. Find out what we can do to get out of here sooner rather than later.”

Quistis stiffened. “But…isn’t the crater dangerous?” She’d read all the medical waivers the teams had signed to enter the area and didn’t particularly want to grow some tumor the size of walnut on her face or suffer infertility for the rest of her life.

“Dr. Kadowaki says it’s probably safe since there’s nothing wrong with the plants or animals in the area. You should be okay for a day.”

Rinoa grinned. “Wonderful! The sooner we get out of here, the better!”

* * *

Jack Krier had just gotten out of the pool, his legs spongy from laps, when his assistant appeared clutching a black, wireless phone.

“For you,” she said and held it out to him.

“It couldn’t wait?” he snapped. He reeked of chlorine. Galbadia could wait just five minutes while he showered.

“He said it was an emergency.”

“Who?”

“Duran Kitsuma.”

He grabbed the phone from her and shooed her off with his free hand. He dried off his face with a towel, then brought the receiver up to his damp ear. “What is it?”

“We have a small problem,” Duran replied.

“Obviously. What is it?”

“Commander Leonhart has ordered two SeeDs to accompany us into the crater.”

“So?”

“So, he’s tapped Trepe and Dincht.”

Krier vividly remembered Quistis Trepe and frowned when Duran mentioned her name. Of all the SeeDs to get mixed up in this, he’d most fervently hoped that she’d emerge unscathed. But he wouldn’t risk the whole mission for her benefit.

“What are their orders?” Krier asked.

“To evaluate how Garden can help _streamline the operation_.”

“And where are we at?”

“Still excavating. There’s a lot more rubble than we anticipated. But we’re almost through the first wall. Past that, it should be easy going.”

Krier’s mind navigated the possibilities.

“Okay. Take the SeeDs along. Don’t bother to hide anything from them. Indicate that this was an accidental, fortunate discovery. They won’t know what it means, so emphasize…you know…the art or whatever else is there. We need Balamb Garden to stay in the area. So let’s throw them a bone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don’t call me again. Don’t give them a reason to send you home.”

“Sorry, sir.”

* * *

Zell sprinted to the edge of the crater and peered down into it. “Whoa! It’s humongous! Kinda freaky, too. Huh, Quistis?”

“It’s about fifteen miles across at it’s longest point,” Reiss, from Esthar, replied.

“How in the hell are you guys supposed to find something in all’a this?” Zell asked.

Reiss smiled. “You have to know where to look.”

“Have you made any progress yet at all?” Quistis asked, her arms crossed.

The question seemed to make Reiss uncomfortable. “We’ve located something of interest in the middle of the crater. That’s where we’re headed today. It will take a few hours to walk there from here.”

“Great!” Zell stood on top of a sandstone outcropping, shadow boxing away energy like a tea kettle letting off steam. “Let’s get going then! I’m a first class repeller and rock climber, you know.”

On the significant drop into the crater, they had to pick their way down a thin, switchbacking trail. By the time they reached the bottom, Quistis uniform had already turned a dusty-grey. They were traveling light, each with a small backpack. Quistis had food, water bottles, and a trowel in hers. Curled up along the top, the handle just peeking out an opening in the zipper, was Save the Queen. She didn’t think she’d need it on this boring, managerial mission, but felt better having it close at hand just in case.

They set off into the crater, the early morning sun already high in the sky and beads of sweat condensing around Quistis’s hairline. She loosened her dress tie and looked around at the dry, featureless rock. Down in the crater, they couldn’t see the lush, Trabian landscape blooming with summer wild flowers and thick forest. The mountains, which she could see eternally snow capped in the distance, didn’t add any sense of life or vitality to the place.

“What do you suppose happened here?” Zell asked no one in particular. He’d been more than pleased with the mission when Quistis delivered Squall’s orders. Sitting stagnant in Garden had been particularly difficult for him. Out in the sun, hiking off into the unknown, he couldn’t stop grinning. “Do you think a comet hit? Or maybe a Lunar Cry?”

The girl, Crecentia, turned and glanced at him. “What makes you think it might have been a Lunar Cry?”

“I’m just thinking of that one which destroyed Centra,” he replied, then thought some more before continuing, “Or how about a volcano?”

“Actually, there is an active fault which runs right through the crater,” Reiss said. He was the team geologist, Quistis recalled. “In fact, this area of Trabia is one of the most geologically active places in the world. Over that way—” he gestured in a westerly direction “—there’s a lake that formed about eighty years ago when a massive earthquake hit and send half a mountain side sliding down into a river. Flooded a valley the size of Deling City. And over that way are some really spectacular volcanic cliffs and geothermal hotsprings.”

For the next half hour, Reiss lectured Zell—a good student and listener in spite of his issues with sitting still. It provided an easy cadence to march to. Quistis kept one ear open for any morsels of information on the crater, but Reiss stuck to less pertinent subjects.

Late that morning, the four finally stopped.

“What is it?” Quistis asked. She felt sweat trickling between her shoulder blades.

The Galbadian, Duran, stepped forward. “We know you’re here to observe, but don’t feel like you have to help. Okay? This area is pretty…sensitive.”

Zell crossed his arms. “I can be  _sensitive_ .”

“Don’t worry about us,” Quistis said and set one hand on Zell’s shoulder. “We’re just here to judge how Garden can better assist you. We won’t interfere with your work.”

The ground in the middle of the crater was hard, cracked, and parched. For miles around, Quistis could see nothing but chunks of black rock. Yet the dirt here was littered with staccato footprints, as if they’d been working here for days. Quistis nudged at the dirt with the toe of her boot, unable to see anything here of interest. She and Zell stood side by side and watched as the four dig team members scattered across the area, kicking aside rocks. When Reiss squatted down and began to roll back what Quistis realized was an exceedingly well camouflaged tarp, she heard Zell mumble, “What the hell?”

She stepped in closer as they rolled the tarp back, eventually revealing a narrow, chiseled staircase that vanished down into the crater’s floor. The steps, made of a sandy white stone, were broken down the middle with a gaping crack that left either side sitting at an incline. She couldn’t see all the way to the bottom. For a moment, she had no idea what to think. Of all the strange things she’d thought could be in the crater, a mysterious staircase hadn’t ever made her list. Yet here it was, inexplicably, plunging into the unknown.

“What’s down there?” Zell asked, his voice quiet.

“We haven’t finished digging it out yet,” Crecentia replied as she pulled a flashlight out of her backpack. “The air’s pretty stale down there. Hope you’re not claustrophobic.” She started down the steps, her flashlight beam waving back and forth, piercing a yellow shaft into the subterranean darkness.

“You think this has something to do with the interference?” Zell called out as he darted down after her, nearly tripping on the first cracked step.

Quistis followed with Reiss and Duran at her back. The stairway narrow stairway was just wide enough for her to stretch out her arms and touch either side. The steps themselves were short and jarring. After the blazing, unbroken sun of the crater, the stairway struck Quistis as ominously dark. Zell had already vanished in front of her. Behind her, Duran’s flashlight played across her legs, casting long, jumping shadows. She almost lost her balance at the bottom when the ground seemed to lurch up to meet her expectant foot.

“Quisty!” Zell’s emphatic face thrust into a flashlight beam. “Come check this out!”

It took a minute for her eyes to adjust, blues and blacks resolving into soft pastels and shades of gray. The mysterious stairway ended in a flat, shallow hallway, at the end of which stood a massive wall still partially obscured by rubble. It was made of the same white stone as the stairway and glittered in the dim light. A black frame surrounded it, polished to an eerie blue green.

“What is this?” Quistis asked, breathless.

Reiss cast her an amused grin. “It’s a wall.”

“What’s behind it?”

He shrugged. “That’s what we’ve been trying to find out.”

She walked up to the wall and pressed her fingers against it. The rock felt smooth and warm, elegant and alive. “Do you think this is what’s causing the interference? Some rare mineral in here?”

“Definitely not _those_ minerals. This—” he motioned to the frame “—is a type of volcanic glass. Hardly rare in this part of the world. The wall and the stairs are both rhyolite. Also igneous. Kind of like granite, but not so coarse. Incredibly common in this region.”

Quistis turned back to the wall and ran her hand down it. She could imagine some ancient Trabian standing in her place eons ago, putting the finishing touches on this grand entryway, one loving palm pressed flat against the old earth and the other caressing the masonry like a lover. She wondered what the crater had been like ages ago. Had it even been a crater then?

“Why haven’t you reported this?” Zell asked.

“To who?” Crecentia asked. “This is exactly the sort of thing we’re here to study.”

“But this is…” Zell seemed at a loss for words.

“Exactly the sort of thing that signals something off about this crater,” Crecentia said, then dropped her backpack into the dust. “Come on. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

The work was hot, cramped, and difficult. With barely enough room to pass by one another, only three could dig at any given time. The other three took turns going up and down the steps, hauling out debris and buckets of sandy sediment. The mind numbing monotony was only slightly worse than the ache in Quistis’s calves and back after an hour’s worth of hard labor. They paused only briefly for lunch (a brown paper bag packed by the cafeteria which included a sandwich, apple, granola bar, and a hard candy).

“We could have had a dozen people out here helping clear this passage,” Quistis said between mouthfuls of peanut butter and jelly.

“Like we told you, it’s sensitive work,” Duran replied.

“Then maybe we should call in some professionals.” In every book she’d read, scientists approached sites like these with toothbrushes rather than garden shovels.

“We are the professionals,” Duran grunted. “And we’re certain that the interference is coming from this area. Once we’ve got it cleared away, then anyone who wants to can spend decades here, cataloging every rock.”

After lunch, Quistis switched to digging. She was on her knees next to Reiss when he went rigid and sucked in a quick breath.

“What is it?” She leaned over his shoulder and looked at the bleached section of wall he’d uncovered. Unlike the rest, which was covered in carved figures, this piece was smooth and polished.

“It’s a plaster patch,” he told her. “Someone fixed the wall right here once.”

Crecentia nudged Reiss out of the way. “Whoever was last here, that must be the way they went in and out. It’s our best bet.”

“Best bet for what?” Quistis asked, the question nearly cut off by the strangled cry she let loose when Crecentia brought a hammer out of her backpack and plowed the head of it into the door, chipping a chunk of plaster the size of a dinner plate off onto the ground. The woman swung over and over again, the dark muscles in her arms tensing and releasing as the plaster crumbled under every powerful blow.

Zell appeared with the other two, drawn by the noise. “What’s going on?”

Duran shouldered past and ripped the hammer from his companion. Quistis and Zell stood impotent, not sure what to do, as the Galbadian attacked the wall. Perhaps this was normal, she thought. It was only a bit of plaster, after all. They hadn’t plowed through the part of the wall that actually included art. Duran’s devastating swings released huge plumes of dust into the already stagnant air. When his hammer broke through, plunging into black nothing, Quistis saw air rush out among the dust motes. The four team members had a sense of urgency about them as they leaned down and pointed their flashlights through the opening.

“Can you see anything?” Zell asked, crowding at their backs.

“Not much,” Reiss replied.

Quistis couldn’t help but get caught up in their excitement as they took to the plaster anew, breaking it off now in large, heavy slabs that they tossed aside until the opening was large enough to shove a backpack through, which Duran did without hesitation. They listened as it plunged into the shadows. Then, feet forward and flashlight gripped between his teeth, Duran wriggled in after it.

“You can stay up here if you’d like,” Crecentia told them as she prepared to follow Duran down the proverbial rabbit hole. “We won’t be gone long.”

“No way.” Zell grabbed Quistis’s arm at the elbow. “We’re coming with you.”

She didn’t want to say that squeezing through a crack in the wall gave her pause. That it wasn’t tactically sound. That if the space beyond was one which welcomed visitors, no one would have blocked it off with a wall in the first place. And she knew it couldn’t be any worse than the Deling City sewers with their thick, dank stench and marauding population of flat, leach-like creeps that could just as well peel off a wall to attack as slither out from under a pile of refuse. So she pulled her arm from Zell’s grip and pushed her own backpack down into the abyss.

She followed after it, sliding down a rocky incline that threw her to her side at the bottom. Self-conscious, she brushed off her knees and adjusted her skirt which had ridden up her thighs on the way down. In the murky light provided by Duran and Crecentia’s flashlights, she took in her surroundings.

Hardly the small space she’d imagined, the cavernous room beyond the wall smelled sweet like perfume. Duran had his light angled across the far wall which was covered from ceiling to floor in vivid paintings of black bulls, blooming flowers, anthropomorphic red dragons, and ancient heroes wearing swords and animal skins. Blocky script sliced through the mural in thick columns. Scattered, haphazard heaps of broken pottery covered the floor.

Awed, Quistis only had the presence of mind to collect her pack and move when Zell’s came flying down the incline and hit her hard in the calf, buckling one leg.

Pottery crunched under her boots as she walked toward Duran. She hissed and balanced on her toes, flinching every time some irretrievably piece of history turned to dust under her step.

“Wow,” came Zell’s hushed whisper behind her. “Do you suppose this is Ancient Centran? Back from when Trabia was part of the Centran Empire?”

Quistis paused in front of a painting of a man with what looked like flames for hair, her stomach heavy. A memory of Bob Shipey, red faced and raising his fist at President Krier, flashed across her mind. Coincidence? She turned her gaze to Reiss and Nik as they came down through the hole with a new sense of suspicion.

“Maybe,” Duran replied offhandedly, engrossed in examining the walls. His lips moved silently.

“You know, if it is…” Zell trailed off for a second and glanced at Quistis. “It would be a pretty big deal. Everything in Centra was destroyed during a Lunar Cry. Ancient Centran stuff is really rare now.”

Realization hit.

 _Treasure_ .

Hardly honest, but not exactly nefarious either. And certainly the greedy sort of undertaking she could contribute to a man like Krier. If Dr. Shipey had somehow discovered that heaps of gold bullion and priceless relics were buried in the crater, the still financially strapped Galbadian government would be keen on retrieving it. But why work with Esthar to do it? She doubted Krier was only interested in the history—he’d fired Shipey from the project once he had the information he needed. Perhaps, she thought while watching Reiss and Nik rifle through pottery sherds, it was the only way to conduct business without wary onlookers. If the Galbadians had come in here alone, mere miles from Trabia Garden, the response would have been swift.

Squall would call this whole mission off the moment he found out.

“These pots must have been filled with oils or incense. You can still smell it,” Nik said.

Quistis blinked and rolled back on her heels, remembering the vague scent of cinnamon and honey that had permeated the air around Odin in his chamber, and the sweet, thick air that had fallen around him on the Lunatic Pandora as he drove himself onto Seifer’s blade and unraveled. Here she could almost sense the old guardian’s presence again drifting on the aromatic drafts.

“We should keep looking,” Duran said. “There must be more than this.”

For the first time since they’d entered the chamber, he swung his light away from the writing on the wall and pointed it further down the chamber.

“That way.”

As the only two bereft of flashlights, Quistis and Zell walked in the middle of the pack. They had to take a meandering path through the broken pottery and around a charred hillock in the back of the chamber. Tucked in by the dark, wrapped in the pleasant chill and sacred, sweet air, Quistis felt suddenly aware that no one had walked this path in well over a thousand years, that every breath she took was one exhaled by an artisan whose bones had long since turned to dust.

At the back of the entrance chamber, they came to another black frame. However, no massive stone slab blocked their path through this passage. Another set of sandy, white stairs led deeper into the earth.

They went down single file.

Even here, in what seemed like incredibly tight confines after the open expanse of the first chamber, the walls were covered in thick paint, slathered on like frosting in small, crenellated waves. As they moved further down, the paint began to crust over with rough, angry scabs. The growths became so overwhelming after a few feet that they obscured the pictures.

“What is this stuff?” Quistis asked.

“Mold and fungus,” Crecentia replied. “Don’t touch it. The paint is organic…made from plant and animal by-products. It’s pretty much dead now. But we don’t want to breathe in it’s dust.”

“The King’s Curse,” Zell said. “Breathing in enough can be fatal.”

“How do you know so much about this?” Quistis couldn’t recall ever seeing Zell pick up a book outside of the classroom.

“Documentaries. Used to watch them with my mom.”

They emerged into another large chamber. The beam from their flashlights couldn’t reach the other side, but they did illuminate the odd diorama in between. Like a child’s playhouse, a miniature city filled the room. Duran moved his flashlight beam across the nearest building, a squat pavilion with a sharply inclined roof, then up to the towering ceiling. It yawned like sky above them, shiny black with stars that caught the light and refracted it into a hundred dancing sprites.

“Are those diamonds?” Zell asked.

“I don’t think so,” Reiss replied. “More likely quartz crystals.”

The tiny town stretched in all directions, giving them a disproportionate sense of grandeur as they walked down one of the perfectly realistic cobblestone streets. Was this how Ancient Centran towns looked? They stopped in front of one beautiful building with stocky columns and high, arched windows. Quistis peered inside. The shadows didn’t reveal much until Reiss stopped beside her and his flashlight illuminated a crumbling, pink face.

“There are people inside.”

Every building had them—tiny, terra cotta effigies, each an individual. There were men, women, and children from all walks of life. Rich, poor, healthy, and sick…some engaged in leisure, some wracked with pain. A cross section of Centran society, forever frozen in time. It struck Quistis as a work of both exquisite love and frightening devotion—a beautiful love letter written with a stalker’s eye for detail.

Nik stopped at a wooden bridge and swore. The planks appeared warped and discolored a dark gray. Underneath, glittered a pale, smooth river. Nothing disturbed the water which reflected back at them like a mirror. Nik reached out and touched the first plank with one toe. An explosive cloud of dust shot into the air as the entire structure collapsed.

When the air cleared, the powdery remnants of the bridge were scattered across the top of the river as if sitting on stone. Not even a ripple made its way through the long, silvery vein.

“That’s not water,” Quistis said.

Reiss squatted at the edge, a hard, assessing look on his face. “Could be mercury,” he said. His hand moved haltingly, like a nervous dog, and he gingerly jabbed the surface with one finger. He let out a long sigh of relief to find it solid. “Thank God. Zinc.”

“So we can just walk across?” Duran asked.

Reiss rapped on the bluish-white metal with his knuckles and nodded. “Should be safe.”

All six crossed without incident. They had to make their way along the far wall for several minutes before they found the exit, a more modest door without the black frame the others had. Another set of stairs took them further down.

Only a few steps down, huge slabs of stone barricaded the way. They were perched together seesaw-like against one another and the walls, leaving dangerous looking gaps. They all stood for a moment in silence until Duran gestured with his flashlight and said, “I think I can squeeze through there.”

“You want to _squeeze_ through?” Quistis said and crossed her arms. “This is hardly stable. It could collapse and kill you.”

“It’s not going to fall. It’s probably been sitting like this for a thousand years. If it hasn’t come down by now, it’s not going to.”

“Quistis is right,” Zell chimed in. “We can bring back more people tomorrow and clear this out. It’s not worth risking your life over.”

“No.” Duran was adamant. “We’re here. I’m going to try to get through and see what’s on the other side.”

The other three looked uneasy as well, though Crecentia offered to hold Duran’s backpack. Reiss mumbled something harsh about Galbadians under his breath.

“Shouldn’t we…you know…interfere?” Zell whispered to Quistis as Duran got down on his belly in front of the largest gap.

She shrugged. “What are we going to do? Kill him so he doesn’t kill himself?”

“We could restrain him or something.”

Duran’s bushy head vanished into the gap. He had to turn on his side to get his shoulders through and his boots levered against the steps to push the rest of his body forward. No one breathed. Quistis didn’t hear anything except the dry scraping of Duran’s jeans on the sandy ground. His torso vanished. Then his knees. Finally, at his ankles, he paused.

“What’s wrong?” Crecentia demanded.

He gave a muffled reply they couldn’t make out and his toes strained hard.

“Are you stuck?” Crecentia called again. Quistis doubted Duran could hear them any better than they could hear him. When Crecentia grabbed Duran’s ankle, he let loose with a savage lunge. She saw his heel connect with one of the stairs. A moment later, she heard a deep, grinding sound. They all stepped back, horror stricken, and watched as the stones grumbled. Duran’s feet disappeared into the gap seconds before one of the load bearing rocks in the middle gave way, the whole thing tumbling inward.

Quistis and Zell jumped to the side to avoid a heavy boulder that rolled their way. Zell slammed into Quistis, knocking her hard into the wall and the air out of her lungs. In the chaos, she ended up on her backside, dizzy and disoriented. Her lungs burned. She sputtered hopelessly, but no one noticed as they ran toward the settling pile of rubble that had fallen into the next chamber on top of Duran. Left alone in the dark on the stairs, she squeezed her eyes shut and willed her body to draw in a full breath.

She’d had the wind knocked out of her once before, when she was thirteen and training against a bigger fourteen year old boy. She recalled sitting slumped in the dirt in the Training Center now as oxygen came back to her in short gasps. She stood up and peered into the next chamber where everyone else had gathered around a menacing, flat slab of rhyolite. Duran’s head peeked over the edge.

She stumbled over to them, her chest still tight. “Is he okay?”

“My foot!” He groaned.

Duran’s entire foot, from the ankle down, was trapped under the rock.

“We need to get him back to Garden immediately.”

Zell, Reiss, and Nik all hooked their fingers under one side.

“Lift on the count of three,” Quistis commanded. “Crecentia and I will pull him out.”

Zell lifted more than his share, the muscles in his arms bulging and straining. They found Duran’s foot intact but visibly broken in multiple places. Quistis rested one hand on his calf and let a cure spell flow warmly out her fingertips. It wouldn’t heal his broken bones, but it would ease the pain and shock.

“Someone’s going to have to carry him,” she announced.

Except for Zell, everyone ignored her.

“This is it,” Nik said, his attention caught by the far wall.

For the first time, she took note of the chamber they were standing in. Not as large as either of the two previous ones, this one was completely dominated by a massive, black doorway that had a short series of strong letters carved into it, surrounded by small, vivid paintings. Heaps of rock were piled about. She didn’t find it as impressive as the room with the tiny town. But something about it got Duran to his feet. He hopped over to the black door and pressed one trembling hand against it.

“Finally.” He carefully traced the letters. “ _Hyne_.”

Zell bent down and picked up one softball-sized rock in his hand. “Quisty…these are people.” He turned it toward her. Large, empty eye sockets leered out of the skull, which had been broken off just below the nose.

On a second glance, she saw the entire chamber was filled with bones.

“Human sacrifices?” Reiss wondered aloud. “They’re all so small…”

Quistis felt sick. “They’re children.” She remembered what she’d heard of Hyne as a little girl; how the first sorceress had roamed the countryside, killing children. Seifer, she recalled, had once frightened her with stories that someday Hyne would come and get her, too.

“We need to open this door,” Duran said.

A shiver crawled up Quistis’s spine and lodged itself at the base of her neck.

“What this have to do with Hyne?” she asked, feeling a whisper of the old terror that had kept her up at night so long ago.

“Nothing. That’s just what this says. ‘Hyne.’ Come on. Help me push.” Duran levered himself against the door, his weight on his good foot. Crecentia and Nik joined him, their boots snapping old bones as they strained.

“How do you know it says Hyne?” Zell asked.

“He knows a little Ancient Centran,” Reiss explained.

“Nobody knows Ancient Centran.”

“Duran does.”

“And so does Dr. Bob Shipey…” Quistis added, the pieces coming together.

“Come on! Help! We’ve almost got it!” Duran yelled. The stone door slid against the floor, opening up into the area beyond, labeled only with the frightening moniker _Hyne_.

Ancient Centra. Krier. Hyne. The crater. How did it all come together? What was really down here? Suddenly, Quistis was afraid to find out.

The door squealed open, the shadow beyond like some vast, primordial chaos. Quistis thought she saw some slouching shadow there. Thought she heard a voice, ancient and dusty…

Duran poked his head inside and swore. “There’s nothing,” he said. “It’s empty.”

* * *

Rinoa woke suddenly, not sure what had roused her from sleep. She felt hot and breathless. She kicked off the covers and lay there, something uneasy lurking at the back of her mind, until Squall came into the room.

“Hey. You awake?” His footsteps made their way over to the bed in the dark.

“Yeah. What’s up?” He knew she wasn’t feeling well. What could be important enough to wake her?

“I’m going to have to leave for a while,” he said as he sat down. “Irvine and I are heading out to the crater. Quistis and Zell haven’t come back yet.”

Rinoa didn’t care about the two science teams, or even particularly about Quistis or Zell at the moment. All she wanted was to go back to sleep and get away from reality. And away from the damnable crater. The mere thought of it sent a tide of nausea through her.

“Why do _you_ have to go?” she found herself saying.

“I’m the one who sent them.” He reached out and caressed her face. “You feel hot. Want me to get you a glass of water?”

Rinoa nodded. A few moments later, he returned and pressed a cool glass into her hand.

“Where’s Angelo?” he suddenly asked.

“I…I don’t know.” She swallowed a large gulp. “Look…Quistis and Zell can take care of themselves. I really want you to stay with me tonight.” She reached out and clutched his hand. “I don’t want to be alone.”

At that word— _alone_ —she felt something stir in her head. A low, dusty voice. A slouching shadow.

“Please, Squall. Don’t go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Credit Where Credit is Due:
> 
> -Zachere provided beta services for the initial draft of this story and pretty much changed my (writing) life. And I really can't thank her enough.
> 
> -Dr. Shipey is very loosely inspired by and named after Dr. Thomas Shippey, a medievalist and Tolkien scholar you may have seen on The Lord of the Rings dvds.
> 
> -I've made many deliberate references to the Mana games, also by Square, including: Duran from Forcena, God Beasts, and the names of my Galbadian ships (Hawkeye & Rolante).
> 
> -I've also alluded to the poems "The Second Coming" by W.B. Yeats and "Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold whenever possible. They provided a framework for much of the imagery I've used in this story.
> 
> -My mythology is a conglomeration of two real mythologies: Norse and Gnostic. From Norse mythology, I have drawn the names of all my Estharan air ships (Heimdall, Balder, etc.) as well as Vidar, Jormangand, Fenrir, berserkers, and several bits and pieces of the Ragnarok as described in the Eddas. From Gnosticism (a second century Christian movement), I have drawn the concept of multiple heavens, divine emanations, aeons, archons, an omnipresent and unknowable god, and my title.
> 
> -Likewise, my history is a combination of information gleaned from in game tutorials (such as the legend of Vascaroon and the colonization of Esthar and Dollet by Centra) and real life historical places. The catacombs in Dollet were based off of those in Rome and Paris. The tomb of Hyne was based off that of the fist Qin Emporer in China. And the temple city in the Centran desert was inspired by the Roussanou Monastery in Greece.


End file.
